


Homeland

by flyingblackhawk



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, pretty much alternates between those two, restaurant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 74,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingblackhawk/pseuds/flyingblackhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant Ward has been waiting tables at Homeland for six years. He doesn't need help from anyone, not Phil and Melinda, his bosses, not Jemma and Leo, the kitchen hands, and especially not from the new bartender, Skye. Being constantly told he needs to improve his people skills is getting on his nerves, and Skye's arrival isn't helping. Who needs people, right? Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday Night

It’s a Tuesday night, and Ward spots trouble within half an hour of starting his shift. He’s already spent an hour prepping vegetables – Phil needs to get himself a damn kitchen hand already – and now he’s juggling bar service and table waiting. It’s not a busy night per se, but he makes sure he has a handle on everything. If there’s one thing he can do, it’s manage himself.

She’s stirring up shit from the corner stool of the bar. Not overtly, but Ward can spot her sowing seeds between the truckers who’ve stopped by for a drink at the end of a long shift. The men are on the verge of getting rowdy. Ward hates rowdy.

The woman is laughing now, and he glances irritatedly at her end of the bar, but he’s pulled away by the arrival of a group. By the time he gets back, the truckers are all but banging on the bar for their next round. Ward’s not flustered. He doesn’t have it in him to be flustered.

He pours out a few pints, placates the men for a few minutes, then hurries back over to the table. It’s a slow night, but that’s no reason to keep his customers waiting. He’s told Phil over and over that he needs to hire more staff.

He ducks into the kitchen to hand over the order for his table.

“How’s it looking out there?” Phil calls from behind the grill.

“Not too bad,” Ward replies. “A couple tables. More at the bar.”

“The usual?”

Ward resists the urge to roll his eyes. “One trouble maker, but I’ll deal with her if I have to.”

“Her?” a voice demands. Fitz has ducked in from out the back to grab the growing pile of pots and pans that need washing. “Did I hear that right, Ward? You’re getting trouble from a girl?”

Ward hears a laugh from out the back, and grits his teeth.

“Simmons!” Fitz calls, hoisting the pile of dishes into his arms and carrying them back to the sink out back. “You’re never gonna believe this.”

“Go take care of the bar,” Phil says. “May can cover the dining room if she needs to.”

Ward gives a stiff nod, and heads back to the bar. Before he is in sight of the truckers, he hears cheering and laughter. Frowning, he hurries over.

The woman is standing behind the bar, mixing drinks. Ward stops for a moment, taken aback. No one goes behind the bar. He has never been in this situation before. She is shaking the cocktail shaker like a professional, but even as he feels the tiniest spark of admiration, he storms over and lets himself behind the bar.

“You can’t be back here,” he fumes, grabbing her by the arm. She juggles the shaker into her other hand and sets it on the bar.

“Hey, let her go!”

It’s one of the truckers protesting, and the others soon join him.

“Yeah, hands off, buddy.”

“At least she’s serving.”

Ward drags her off to one side. He can see that almost every trucker has a drink in front of them, some beer, some liquor, some cocktails.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands. “This is theft. I could have you arrested for this.”

She rolls her eyes. “They all paid for their drinks, asshole. Some of them almost double. You’d be surprised how much people appreciate a friendly smile.”

“What’s going on?”

It’s Phil, come to investigate the noise. He folds his arms, looking from Ward to the woman and back again.

“She jumped behind the bar,” Ward tries to explain. “The customers-”

“Look pretty happy,” the woman pipes up. “Don’t you think?”

Phil looks around them at the laughing truckers. “They’re not fighting yet, which is a bonus,” he admits. “Let her go, Ward.”

Ward releases his grip on the woman and she rubs her arm, giving him a dirty look.

“Have you worked as a bartender before?” Phil asks her. He looks curious, not pissed. That’s mildly concerning, Ward thinks.

“Five years, on and off,” she shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

Ward rolls his eyes. Yeah, that’s not suspicious or anything. “Phil-”

“You handled our Tuesday crowd pretty well,” Phil says. “What’s your name?”

The woman thinks for a moment. “Skye.”

“What’s your real name?” Ward asks, rudely. Phil shoots him a look. Ward does _not_ like where this is going. Phil is nothing if not predictable, and he’s always looking for a new stray to bring aboard. That was how Ward got started, after all.

“How about you come back tomorrow night?” Phil says. “We’ve been looking for a new bartender for a while now, and you seem to be pretty comfortable up there.”

“It’s a small bar,” she shrugs, like she’s not considering taking the job on the spot. Ward can see past it, but apparently Phil is choosing to ignore anything he doesn’t want to see.

“I think you’d be a good fit,” Phil says. Ward is radiating disapproval, and Skye looks the waiter up and down, thinking.

“You really don’t want me here, do you?” she asks him. Phil’s lips quirk, but when Ward glances at his boss, his face is neutral. He doesn’t answer her.

“I guess I’ll be back tomorrow then,” Skye grins. She grabs her bag from the bar and blows a cheeky kiss to the nearest of the truckers, earning a slew of pleas to stay just a little while longer.

The bell on the door chimes as she disappears outside, and Ward rounds on his boss.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he demands, glaring at Phil. “We don’t know who she is! She gave us a damn fake name, and you want to give her a _job?”_

“Calm down, Ward,” Phil sighs. “We need a bartender. I can’t have you running back and forth between the dining room and here. It’s not practical.”

Ward goes to interrupt, but Phil holds up a hand.

“Speaking of,” he says firmly, “you should get back to your table.”

Ward fumes silently, then collects himself with a breath. “I think this a really bad idea,” he mutters.

“Noted,” Phil smiles. “Now get to work.”

Ward moves back into the dining room and tries his hardest to smile. Simmons tried to teach him a couple of tricks to seem friendlier. After all, people skills are high on the list of priorities for a waiter. He has only kept his job thus far thanks to his immaculate service and attention to detail. He can remember entire orders without writing them down, can remember every detail about every customer he can decipher from their appearance. His only failing, in his own mind, is that he can’t quite make people warm up to him. But that’s irrelevant, really. Who needs people?

He serves his table, and within an hour they’re gone, leaving generous tips and the faint echoes of praise for the food all the way out into the parking lot. Ward clears off their table with Fitz, and makes his way into the kitchen to clean up after Phil and Melinda.

“You look annoyed,” his other boss tells him, looking up from her pan of pasta. “Did someone try to make a human connection with you?”

“Very funny,” Ward mutters.

“You need to-”

“Make an effort with the customers, I know.”

She turns around, and Ward tenses slightly. Being on May’s bad side is not something he needs tonight, or ever, for that matter. He shouldn’t have been so tetchy. May only jokes around for so long, and then she turns on the ice.

“I don’t think that lesson’s sunk in properly,” she says, her expressionless face absolutely terrifying. Not that Ward is ever scared of anything. “So yes. You need to make an effort with them. And start thinking of them as _people,_ not profit on legs.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, though it’s not all that sincere. May regards him coolly, then turns back to the pasta.

“You want dinner?” she asks.

“I’m not hungry,” he grunts in reply.

“I’ll put your lamb on,” she says, ignoring his response entirely. Ward’s lip twitches, and he turns back to clearing his station before he lets himself smile. No matter how badly any of them screw up, May and Phil always cook them dinner at the end of the night.

“Who was the new girl?”

Simmons has ducked into the kitchen to hover by the warmth of the stove. She has gloves on, her shirt rolled to the elbows, and her apron is splattered with food and soaked with water. Ward has never missed being a dish boy.

“Don’t know,” he says sharply.

“She’s our new bartender,” May says, without turning around. Jemma’s excited squeal makes Ward wince, and he’s sure May’s expression will be identical.

“How _long_ have I been telling you to employ some more women?” she exclaims. “Oh, this is great, I can’t wait to have someone to talk to.”

“She’ll be behind the bar, Simmons,” Ward points out.

“Don’t ruin it, Ward,” she snaps back. “I’ll bet you’ve already made an impression.”

He is silent, and Jemma’s chuckle is infuriating.

“We’re done for the night,” she tells May as she peels off her gloves and sheds her apron into the linen bin.

“I’ve got your pasta on,” May tells her.

“Prosciutto and mozzarella?”

“Of course.”

“With just a hint of-”

“Pesto aioli.”

“You’re the best, May,” Jemma grins, and leaves the kitchen.

“Weird pasta,” Ward mutters. He doesn’t get a response from Melinda, and figures he’s really put himself in the shit with this whole Skye debacle. The woman has managed to infuriate him, and he’ll have to put up with her all over again come tomorrow night.

“Almost done?” Phil asks, as he enters the kitchen. “Dining room’s cleared and vacuumed, doors are locked, anything else?”

“Dinner,” May says, handing him a plate of beef wellington and vegetables. Phil takes it with a grin.

“What would I do without you?” he sighs, and takes it into the dining room. He pulls three more chairs up to the table where Fitz and Simmons are already eating their pasta, and they all sit down together. Ward’s sleeves are finally rolled up, the sign of a night finally finished, and they start to eat.

Aside from FitzSimmons’ constant chatter, the rest of them are silent. Phil and May exchange a little conversation, mostly regarding the books, or the new girl. Ward is silent, still angry at Phil for not backing him up. What right did that girl have to get behind his bar and start doing his job? They don’t _need_ a bartender. Well, they kind of do. But they definitely don’t need _her._ She’s not a good fit, he can tell.

May clears the plates when they’re done, and Ward yawns. Back to his apartment. He gets the morning off tomorrow. He might go to the gym. There’s some shopping he needs to do. For a moment, he wonders if he could maybe make his day more interesting. But then he shakes himself. Habit is safe. Routine is character building.

He says a curt goodnight and leaves the rest of them at the table. His bike is waiting outside, and he shrugs on his jacket and pulls on his helmet. Anonymous. Ward always enjoys the ride home. It’s nearing midnight now, but there’s still traffic on the roads. Enough for a few people to notice a man on a motorbike rumbling steadily home.

He locks his bike in the garage of his building and climbs the seven flights to his floor. Lets himself in. Dumps his bag and gets in the shower. Within twenty minutes, he’s reading in bed, and just before one, he switches off the light and closes his eyes. His last thought before he falls asleep is of his new colleague, and he grits his teeth even as he relaxes into unconsciousness.


	2. A Change of Scenery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Skye's first shift, and Ward's having a hard time accepting that she might be here for good. Skye meets new people, including Grant's least favourite bar patron.

She’s late. Big surprise. Ward is leaning against the bar when she finally swans in, bag slung over her shoulder. She is dressed in black, as any bartender would be. Not in a collared shirt, though, which grates with him. She’s wearing a tight, low-cut top that is far too distracting… He catches himself before she looks up from her phone.

“You’re late,” he snaps.

“Sorry,” Skye shrugs. She doesn’t sound it at all. “Traffic was bad.”

He grunts, and hands her a laminated piece of paper. She takes it, perplexed.

“Cheat sheet,” he explains. “Price list, regulars and their orders, usual rush times, popular-”

“Ward,” she interrupts. “Your name’s Ward, right? You’ve over-organised this. I’ve worked behind bars before. I’ll be fine.”

“Just take it,” he mutters. “It’s Wednesday, so it won’t get busy until about nine. Before that, I’ll run you through table service when you don’t have anything to do.”

“Yessir,” she mutters, giving a lazy salute before taking the sheet and letting herself behind the bar. She looks far too comfortable for his liking, and he watches her carefully.

“You’re on a _trial_ shift,” he reminds her.

“Oh come on,” she laughs. “You guys _need_ a bartender. I’m a good bartender. It’s not a trial shift.”

God, how he hates that she’s right. He merely fixes her with a cold look. “Nothing’s set in stone.”

“Ominous,” Skye grins. She’s making fun of him, and he hates it. “I think we’ll all be fine. Phil and Melinda seem to know how to run the place. What’s their deal, anyway?”

“Their deal?” Grant repeats stiffly.

“Yeah, you know,” she says, gesturing uselessly. “Are they married? Dating? Casual sex? What is it?”

“They’re divorced,” he says, his tone curt. “Anything beyond that is none of our business.”

“I knew they’d hooked up,” she grins. “He talks about her with this look in his eye like he’s remembering the best fuck he ever-”

“Customers,” Grant says, his voice strained. Skye flashes him a grin that makes him want to scream, and he turns away to see to the dining room. He catches Simmons fleeing the scene, and within moments there is hushed conversation coming from the back.

He is jerky and distracted in serving his first few tables. The customers don’t seem to notice the difference, and he doesn’t know whether or not to be grateful for that fact. Too often, his eye is drawn to the bar, where Skye is inevitably chatting to someone, laughing, clearly charming her customers beyond belief. Her tip jar is already half full, which is unbelievable, given that she’s only been working for an hour or so. She can’t have had more than fifteen customers.

When his first tables are dealt with, and there is no one at the bar, he goes over to fetch her.

“If you’re going to work at Homeland, you need to be versatile,” he tells her. “Bar service, table service, in the kitchen, it all needs to be up to scratch.”

“Because you’re ridiculously understaffed?” she grins. Ward grits his teeth.

“Because we have a small, tight-knit staff, yes,” he says. “And we all need to be able to help each other out.”

He shows her the basics of clearing and laying a new table. She seems to be watching, but he doubts she’s taking much in. This is confirmed when he asks her to do another table. It’s clumsy, and she has to reference the other tables. Not impressive, by Grant’s standards.

“Have you waitressed before?” he asks coldly.

“Bartender,” she says, rolling her eyes. “As I’ve said, like, fifty times now.”

“It shows,” he says. That seems to quiet her for a moment or two, and he takes the opportunity to show her the proper way to set the cutlery and glasses in relation to one another. She manages to clumsily copy the setting, and he lets her go back to the bar as a few more customers arrive.

Ward serves another table, and clears another when a group leaves, and by the time he makes his way back to the bar to check on Skye, her tip jar is full, her customers are happy, and Fitz and Simmons are both hovering behind the bar, chatting to her.

“Shouldn’t you two be in the kitchen?” he says sharply. They jump, eyeing him guiltily. Technically he’s not their boss, but he’s still senior to them, and besides, he’s scary.

“We were just getting to know the new girl,” Jemma explains. Fitz nods along, always happy to go with whatever his friend comes up with.

“They’re fine, Ward,” Skye says breezily, pouring a drink for the guy down the bar who’s signalling her. “They just came to introduce themselves.”

“You don’t get to tell me what’s fine,” he says, and regrets it immediately. He sounds like he’s grasping for power - which he’s definitely _not_ doing - and she picks up on it immediately.

“Aww, don’t feel threatened,” she grins at him. Jemma stifles a giggle behind her hand, and even Fitz looks like he’s about to overcome his nervousness around Ward to join Skye in a grin. “C’mon, Ward, they’ll go back to their dishes in a minute. They just wanted to welcome me to the family.”

Ward glares at the troop of them, and turns on his heel, marching out of the bar. An uncomfortable silence follows him, which he also ignores. Let them think whatever they want. The dish washers will soon realise that Skye isn’t a good fit, like he has already seen. He only hopes that Phil and May will soon see it too. He isn’t sure how much more of this he can take.

The hours tick on by, and Ward serves table after table. Wednesday night isn’t one of their busier nights, but it’s still busy. Every night is busy for Homeland. It’s a popular place. Good food, good atmosphere. Grant isn’t sure even now what he thinks about it, despite having worked here for six years.

There is a lull as the dining guests peter out at about eleven. The dining room generally shuts down about now, and once he’s cleared the tables, he heads over to the bar. It’s not as rowdy as it has been over the last few hours. Only a few patrons remain, a couple of regulars who are already happier with the new girl than they ever seemed to be with Ward. He doesn’t let himself care, just gets behind the bar and begins to polish glasses.

“Good night?” she asks, leaning beside him. After a moment, to his surprise, she picks up a cloth and starts to help him.

“Same old,” he shrugs. “People came, people went. People bought food.”

“Great to see you love your job,” she snorts. He glances sharply at her.

“Look,” she sighs, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

It’s his turn to snort. Understatement of the century.

“I can be a bit prickly,” she admits. “And you seem like the sort of guy who can be like that too. I don’t know how we both ended up in hospitality, but… I like this place. I want to be a part of it.”

Despite how frustrating he still finds her, she does sound like she’s genuinely hopeful. He sighs, and continues his work with the glasses.

“Phil and Melinda are good people,” he says. “They can’t help but help people, and if you need this job, and if you want it, there’s no way they’ll send you packing.”

“Thanks,” she says, her tone slightly warmer. “I kind of needed that.”

Before he can say anything else, he hears the door chime tinkle, and turns his head.

“Damn,” he mutters, turning back to the glasses. “I thought he wasn’t coming in tonight.”

“Who is it?” Skye asks, looking over at the man who’s just walked in.

“His name’s Ian,” Ward says. “The last time he was in here he almost started a brawl.”

“He doesn’t look scary,” she shrugs.

“Be careful,” Ward warns her. “He’s a real dick.”

“What a gentleman you are,” she says, sarcasm lacing her tone.

The man approaches the bar, and she leans over, smiling warmly at him.

“Welcome to Homeland,” she says. “What can I get you?”

“You’re new,” the man says, looking her up and down for far too long for it to be polite. “I like the change. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

Ward resists the urge to mutter under his breath, and continues to polish the glasses.

“How’s it going, Ward?” the man drawls, leaning on the bar. “Managed to crack the mysteries of human emotions yet?”

“Evening, Quinn,” Ward says through gritted teeth, turning briefly to give the man a painfully fake smile. He turns back, and lets Skye put her self-professed bartending prowess to the test.

“Gin and tonic it is,” she smiles. She makes it up quickly, and slides it over. He pays with a fifty.

“Keep the change,” he says, his smile sickly sweet. Grant glances at Skye, and is almost satisfied to see that her smile is only half grateful, the other half slightly creeped out. Quinn gives off a certain aura. He’s threatening, and though he can’t stand the woman, Ward’s not about to leave Skye alone with him in the bar.

“So, sweetheart,” Quinn says, swirling his drink. “What brings you to this sorry corner of town?”

“Change of scenery,” she shrugs, grabbing a few more glasses to polish.

“If it’s scenery you’re after, I can arrange a tour of the wine country.” Quinn is leaning further over the bar, like he’s about to reach out for her.

“Come now,” she giggles, affecting a Southern accent. “We barely know each other, Mister. Wouldn’t be proper like.”

He chuckles, but Ward can see when she turns to grab another glass that she looks unsettled.

“Fair enough,” Quinn leers, as she turns back to him. “Maybe some other time. I’ll have to keep coming back until I get a yes from you, pretty lady.”

She gives him a girlish smile and a wink. “Excuse me,” she simpers. “I have to grab something from out back.”

She leaves, and Grant turns on Quinn, who raises his hands.

“Come on now, Ward,” he says, the lazy smirk never leaving his face. “We both know you’re not going to make a move, so where’s the rule that says I can’t?”

“You know Phil won’t stand for you harassing his staff,” Grant says, glaring. “She’s new. Lay off, or I’ll get you banned.”

“Big talk, big guy,” Quinn sneers. “You know how much pull I have in this town. I could have you shut down in a matter of hours. May and Coulson know it too, why do you think I still come to this hole every now and then? Sometimes you need to reassert your dominance.”

Ward resists the urge to shudder. Fucking creep. Quinn slams back his gin and tonic, and sets the glass upside down, leaving a wet ring on the wood of the bar.

“No fun without the eye candy,” he sighs, melodramatically. “Guess I’d better get going.”

Ward watches him leave, and picks up the glass, wiping underneath it. The bar has emptied, so he shuts it down, locking the door. He finds Skye outside, sitting on the steps. At first he thinks she’s smoking – wouldn’t be surprised – but she’s just sitting, her chin propped on her hands.

“What a fucking weirdo,” she says, when he appears next to her.

“I warned you,” he shrugs.

“Guess you know more than I thought,” she says, that faint grin reappearing. Ward rolls his eyes.

“I shut down the bar for you,” he says, rolling his shoulders.

“Thanks,” she says, sounding surprised. “Guess I’d better get going, then.”

“May cooks dinner for all the employees before they go,” he blurts. “If you… if you’re hungry.”

“Really?” she asks. “Wow, that’s a bonus and a half. Can she do lasagna? I’m really feeling lasagna right now.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “We’ve got some portions in the freezer, I think, but her fresh stuff is better-”

“Frozen’s fine,” she says, grinning again. “It’s all I’ve eaten in the last four years anyway, why stop now, right?”

She pushes past him, and Ward finds himself stuck on the steps for a moment before he follows her in. It isn’t often he thinks of his little group at Homeland as a family, but if that’s what they are, what is Skye? She seems determined to fit, whatever the answer may be, and he can’t help but admire that in her. He was exactly the same, six years ago, long before Fitz and Simmons fell into the picture, before Homeland was really even a business. All they had was hope.

Ward sighs, and follows Skye inside. The scent of May’s food washes over him, and he allows himself a small smile.


	3. The perfect amount of shots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team has dinner. An old friend of Skye's comes to town. Grant and Skye have a chat after hours at the bar, and things come out.

Skye seems uncomfortable at the table as the six of them eat their dinner, as per their tradition. Fitz and Simmons are chattering over their unique pasta dish, and Ward has his lamb. May has heated up a plate of lasagna for Skye, and she and Phil each have soup.

“So, what do you think of Homeland so far?” Phil asks, watching their new bartender. She is sitting between Simmons and May, opposite Ward.

“It’s… homey,” Skye answers hesitantly. “Different. I like it. You guys are like a little family.”

“How’s your lasagna?” Fitz asks, before Phil can interrogate her further.

“Great,” she says, nodding. “It’s nice of you to make me dinner, I wasn’t looking forward to cup noodles.”

She grins like she’s joking, but it’s clear to Ward that noodles were her plan.

“We always sit down to eat after a shift,” May shrugs.

“That’s unusual for a restaurant, right?” Skye says again, shifting uncomfortably.

“Just think of it like dinner at home,” Jemma offers, smiling at the woman sitting next to her. “Just dinner with the family.”

“Yeah,” Skye says, but she’s looking increasingly uncomfortable, and when she glances up to find Ward watching her, she immediately drops her gaze to her food. He wonders for a moment, then returns to his own meal.

“Phil,” Fitz says, after a spell of silence. “Jemma and I found a dishwasher you might like.”

“I already have two dish washers,” Phil sighs. “They’re more than I can handle as it is.”

“An _actual_ dishwasher,” Jemma sighs. “We were looking through the classifieds, and we found a great industrial machine that’s going for a very reasonable price.”

“Berta’s not what she used to be,” Fitz pipes up.

“Berta?” Skye mutters.

“The dishwasher,” Ward explains, looking up briefly.

“Not until we actually need one,” Phil groans.

“We need one _now,_ ” Jemma says firmly. “Berta’s ancient, and there’s a reason the company doesn’t make that model anymore. Trust me, one night in the middle of dinner service, she’s going to blow up, and you’ll be stuck with us handwashing everything.”

Phil sighs. “Fine, send me the link to the ad. I’ll think about it.”

Skye has been watching the exchange with a distant fascination that Ward finds confusing. She’s observing them like wild animals in their own habitat, trying to understand them better. Grant can’t quite put his finger on what’s unsettling her about dinner, but there’s definitely something.

When they’re finished eating, Fitz clears the plates and they all stand.

“Before I forget,” Phil says, fishing around in his pocket. “Staff all get a key for emergencies. Here you go.” He hands over a small silver key, and Skye takes it, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly.

“Wow,” she says. “Um… thanks.”

“See you tomorrow night,” May smiles.

“Thanks again,” Skye says to May. “See you tomorrow.”

“Five sharp,” Ward says firmly. Skye rolls her eyes, but nods, tucking the key into her pocket.

“Five it is,” she agrees. Her phone rings, and she pulls it from her bag.

“Night,” she says, and leaves to a chorus of replies from everyone.

“Don’t be so hard on her,” Phil chides. Ward rolls his eyes.

“She’s useless at waiting tables,” he mutters. “She doesn’t want to listen to me.”

“Because you expect her to be as good as you on her first night in the dining room,” May says. Fitz and Simmons are on their way out.

“Maybe if you try to-”

“Connect with her?” Grant sighs. May purses her lips, but Grant just nods. “I’ll do my best. Can’t promise anything.”

“I believe in you,” Phil chuckles, and slaps him on the shoulder. Grant bids them both goodnight, and leaves. On his way over to his bike, he spots Skye standing on the curb. As he watches, she hangs up her phone, looking frustrated, and looks down the road, as if waiting for someone. After half a minute or so, a car squeals to a halt in front of her, and she gets in the passenger seat. The car takes off down the road, leaving Grant to wonder who was behind the wheel. He knows nothing about Skye. It could have been anyone. Probably a boyfriend. The thought irritates him, but he’s not sure why. It bothers him as he gets on his bike, and all the way back to his apartment.

-

The clock blinks 1:13 as Skye flops back on the bed, panting. A man soon joins her on the pillows, in a similarly dishevelled state. She rolls over and rests her head on his shoulder, but her pleasant haze doesn’t last long. He sits up, and she is rudely spilled off him and onto the sheets.

“Miles,” she complains. “C’mon. Just sleep, for fuck’s sake.”

“I gotta go, babe,” he murmurs, reaching out to ruffle her hair. She rolls her eyes. He’s good in the sack, but terrible at affection.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she mutters. “You paid for the room. We have it until the morning.”

“I gotta get going,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve got a flight back to Austin in a few hours.”

“What?” she mumbles. Her head is clouded with exhaustion and sex, and she’s not sure she heard him right. “Austin?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, locating his pants and pulling them on.

“What the _fuck,_ Miles?” she exclaims, throwing the blankets off and sitting up, completely naked and completely unabashed by the fact.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he sighs, but he looks more frustrated than apologetic. “You know how it is.”

“Clearly not,” she snaps. “Come on, you promised you’d stay longer this time. You said you’d come for a week.”

“Plans changed,” he mutters, questing around for his shirt.

“One day?” she demands. “You give me one day, you asshole? What, you just turn up for sex and then fly back to Austin, is that it?”

He glances at her. “You know how this works, Skye.”

“ _Do I?”_ she shouts, and he gives her a look, as if he’s worried she’s going to disturb the motel patrons around them. Fuck them. She doesn’t care. She’s angry. “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you, Miles?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Skye,” he says angrily, rounding on her. “You’re the one who doesn’t care about this relationship anymore, I don’t see why it should matter to you.”

“Fuck you,” she spits. “You know how much you mean to me.”

“Not as much as I did before,” he retorts. “Or you would have moved back when I asked you to.”

“You don’t _own_ me,” she growls. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“See, that, right there!” he exclaims, rolling his eyes. “You’re like a fucking teenager, Skye! No one’s trying to tell you what to do.”

“I’m not coming to Austin,” she says sharply. “And I don’t think you should come back here again.”

“Come on, Skye,” he says, pulling on his shirt. “Don’t talk shit. You and I both know you’ll be calling me up in a month or two, telling me you miss me, asking me to come fly up to see you.”

She gets out of bed, facing him, still buck naked. “Like I’m gonna call you, you piece of shit,” she spits. “It doesn’t fucking matter who you fuck, does it? We’re all the same, just cunts on legs for Miles Lydon, big man from Fuck Knows, Texas, who wouldn’t know a good thing if it kicked him right in the-”

He swings his arm back and slaps her. The force of it knocks her sideways, and she lets out a startled gasp and staggers back. Suddenly her nakedness isn’t empowering, it’s vulnerable, and she glares at him. This is the first time he’s done this sober.

“Go get on your fucking plane, Lydon,” she murmurs. “Don’t call me.”

“Skye,” he says, reaching out for her. She slaps his hand away, still holding her burning cheek, and gathers up her clothes. She dresses, grabs her bag, and leaves him there, still searching for his socks – one of them is stuck on the ceiling fan where he threw them when they were tearing their clothes off. She slams the door behind her, pretending that there aren’t tears in her eyes.

-

Grant’s been at home about an hour before he realises that he left his phone at the restaurant. He curses loudly, and weighs up his options. Eventually, he decides that he can’t wait until tomorrow night to get it back, and grabs his keys. Within a couple of minutes he is on the road, riding the short distance to the restaurant. Ten minutes later, he’s unlocking the back door of Homeland. He snaps on the lights in the kitchen, casting around to see where he might have left his phone. It’s lying on the centre bench, and he picks it up.

He hears a noise, and tenses. Someone’s inside. He automatically reaches for a pan, but then he recognises the noise as sniffing. Someone’s crying. A woman.

“Skye?” he calls out. There is a crash and he winces. He jogs through the dark dining room to the bar. Only the lights on the back wall are on, and Skye is sitting on the rear counter, her back against the wall, hastily reassembling the bunch of water bottles she’s just knocked over.

“Ward,” she sighs, visibly relieved. “Hey.”

He sizes her up. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but she looks like she’s been crying for a while. There are four shot glasses upside-down on the bar in front of her. She has her knees to her chest.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his tone carefully neutral. “It’s two in the morning.”

“I could ask you the same question,” she retorts, but her voice sounds frail, not at all like the confrontations he expects from her.

Ward waves his phone. “Forgot this. Are you drinking?”

“Is that against the rules?” she mutters bitterly. “Yes. I had four shots. Four shots is the perfect amount of shots. Enough to get you a little drunk, but not too much.”

He gingerly approaches the bar. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she snaps, then softens. “No.”

He considers her for a moment, then hauls himself up onto the bar, swinging his legs over until they hang inside the bar area, so he can face her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. She snorts, and he’s glad of the dim light. It hides the slight flush on his cheeks. God, he really is bad at this.

“I don’t think you want to hear about it,” she murmurs, and turns her head slightly. Despite the bad lighting, Grant can clearly see that there is a bruise on her cheek, and her lip has a tiny split in it. His fingers curl tightly over the edge of the bar. Was it the guy in the car? Is this what she doesn’t want to talk about?

“I know you think I’m some sort of robot,” he says, carefully, “but you can talk to me. We work together now. We’re all friends here.”

She glances at him, and her eyes widen fractionally as she realises that he’s seen the damage to her face.

“It’s not what you think,” she mutters.

“Said every abuse victim ever,” Grant says quietly. “I’m not here to intervene. I don’t know you, I don’t know your situation. I can listen, though.”

Skye sighs, and leans back against the wall. The light throws the bruise on her cheek into sharp relief, and Grant has to wonder why it makes him angry, looking at it.

“Do you at least have a place he doesn’t have keys to?” he asks. “Can he get into your apartment?”

“He can’t get into my place,” she mutters. She doesn’t comment on the assumption he’s made, so Grant can only deduce that it’s a boyfriend. Surely she’s not old enough to be married. Though he doesn’t know how old she is. She doesn’t look either happy enough or miserable enough to be married. No, Skye is somewhere in between. An enigma.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” he asks, unsure if he’s pushing the boundaries of propriety by asking.

“No,” she says sharply. She backtracks immediately, softening her expression, but the damage is done. He’s suspicious. She’s definitely hiding something.

“Do your parents live nearby?” he asks. “Maybe you could call them-”

“Don’t have any,” she says. She rubs her shins absently as Grant struggles to process this new information, and the massive faux pas he’s just committed.

“I’m… sorry,” he manages. She gives a soft laugh.

“God, look at you,” she chuckles. “It’s okay, I never knew them. I grew up in an orphanage. No big deal.”

“At least let me walk you to your place,” he says, trying to make up for his blunder. “This guy, is he still around?”

“He’s gone,” she says firmly, shaking her head. Ah. Breakup. “And I…” She hesitates, and Grant frowns.

“What is it?”

“I don’t have a _place,_ really, it’s more of a…”

He is confused now. “A what?”

“A van,” she mutters. He hopes he’s not gaping.

“A van?” he asks. Maybe he misheard.

“I live in a van,” she says. “Again. No big deal.”

“You’re homeless?” he blurts.

“No,” she says, her voice tight. “My van is my home. Has been for a few years now. It’s by choice, Ward. I can stay on the move. I like it.”

Grant leans back. He’s learned far too much in the last few minutes. An hour ago he knew next to nothing about Skye. Now she’s a homeless orphan with an abusive ex-boyfriend, sitting in a bar with a man who has no idea what to do.

“You don’t have to save me,” she says quietly. He looks up guiltily, and she’s looking at him without a trace of irony or mockery. She just looks tired, and a little sad. “You look like everyone does when they find out about my life. You’re ready to jump in like a knight in shining armour, help me out, be the good guy. You don’t have to. I’m pretty happy.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it.

“Can I walk you to your van, then?” he asks, eventually. Skye gives him a tired smile, and rolls off the bench. She grabs the shot glasses and dumps them in the sink, then switches off the lights. She hasn’t given him an answer, but Ward walks her out anyway.

“Is that your bike?” she asks. He nods. “It’s not as cool as Coulson’s car.”

“I know,” he sighs.

Her van is parked around the corner, and she pauses with her hand on the handle.

“Thanks, Grant,” she says, her voice softer. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“See you later,” Grant says, managing a little smile. She climbs inside the van and shuts the door. He pauses for the briefest of moments, before walking back to his bike and starting the short ride home.


	4. The Cardinal Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye hides herself again. Ward can't crack through, and takes comfort in someone else.

Skye is slightly late to her next shift, so Grant has already served a few people behind the bar when she shows up. He notes the makeup barely covering the mark on her cheek, and says nothing. She seems grateful as he leaves her to do her job. The locals seem happy to see her. Perhaps she’s fitting in faster than Ward thought she might.

“How are ya, darlin’?” one of her truckers asks.

“Doing just fine, Earl,” she grins, pouring him a beer.

Ward has to marvel at her. She’s formed a rapport with her customers that he never could have hoped to develop. The customers are happy. But more than that, he’s amazed that the girl who seemed so vulnerable and alone in the small hours of the morning can look so confident and happy. How much of it is acting, and how much is real? Survival is a tricky thing. He knows that, better than most.

For once, Grant decides to take the advice the others have been giving him. He smiles at his customers. He asks a few old ladies how their days were, and nods sympathetically as they complain. A small girl makes faces at him, and he makes them back. She laughs, and he feels a weird warmth in his chest. Uncomfortable, he retreats to the kitchen once his tables are dealt with for the time being.

“Ward,” Phil calls, from the other side of the kitchen. Ward goes over. Phil looks around, checking for the others.

“The bruise on Skye’s face,” he says, getting right down to the point. Ward’s stomach drops slightly. Where is this going?

“Do you know anything about that?” Phil asks. Ward sighs, and considers his answer for a moment.

“Yes,” he says at last. “It’s her business, Phil.”

“Did someone-”

“Phil,” he interrupts. “I’m going to look out for her, okay? Not that she needs me to. Skye can handle herself.”

Phil sizes him up, and then nods. “She’s the best bartender we’ve ever had,” he says gruffly. “I’d hate for something to happen to her.”

“Me too,” Ward says, and turns away before Phil can see that he regrets saying anything at all.

The dining room gets their meals in good time. There are only four tables, about twelve diners in all at the moment. It’s still early. Ward sees to all of them, then finds himself walking to the bar. He knows it’s a bad idea, but his feet don’t seem to be under the jurisdiction of his brain any longer.

“Hey,” he says, when he reaches the end of the bar where Skye is polishing some glasses. She looks up, and straight back down at her work.

“Hey,” she says, her tone flat. Ward frowns slightly.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Fine,” she mutters, turning away from him to stack glasses.

Ward is taken aback. Why is she being short with him? Did he do something wrong? Is there something specific he’s supposed to say here?

“Are you sure?” he asks, shifting from foot to foot.

“I’m kind of busy, Ward,” she snaps. He takes the hint, and leaves the bar. It’s not until he gets past thinking about himself and his own vexation that he realises she probably hasn’t sat down and talked to anyone like that in a while, if ever. She was open with him, and now that he thinks about it, he wasn’t very open in return. His inner voice is starting to sound suspiciously like Phil.

Now that he has an inkling of why Skye is mad, he steers clear of the bar. It doesn’t stop him being slightly resentful. He was only trying to be nice the night before. She was upset, he comforted her. As much as he could. Maybe he didn’t at all, he’s not even sure.

Before he can get too frustrated, he gets some unexpected company. May drifts out of the kitchen and starts clearing tables for him. She almost never does this, unless…

“You and Phil fighting again?” he asks, as he joins her in clearing the tables. She grunts quietly in response and his lip twitches into the barest hint of a smile.

“What is it this time?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she sighs. “It’s just one of the nights where I question how we ever survived being married.”

Grant thinks about it. He didn’t know either of them before he came to Homeland, and he can’t imagine them as a young married couple. He can’t imagine them without their constant barrage of sarcasm and gentle insults either.

“I’ve always thought it’s really impressive that you two can still work together,” he says, shrugging. “Shows that you’re both strong people, and you’re smart.”

“We work well together in this sense,” she says, stacking plates on top of each other. Grant pitches cutlery into a bucket. “We didn’t work well in the other sense.”

Grant can’t imagine loving someone and then falling out of love. Honestly, he can’t imagine loving someone enough to marry them. Or loving someone at all, really. That thought brings down his mood even further.

“You okay?” May asks.

“Training Skye’s been a little more difficult than I thought,” he sighs.

“Because the customers love her?” his boss says, grinning faintly.

“They _really_ love her, May,” he says, his voice taking on a slightly petulant whine. She laughs, and helps him carry the dishes out to Fitz and Simmons. She stands with him at his station, waiting for the next influx of diners.

“She’s a people person,” May tells him. “That doesn’t make her better at your job than you are, just _her_ job.”

“Her job _was_ my job until she came along.”

“It’s a bar, not a child’s toy.”

Grant sighs. “I’m just tired, I guess.”

“Not too tired, I hope,” she murmurs, and leaves him just as a group of people walk in.

Grant is his usual self with his next group of diners, and they keep him busy enough that he doesn’t see much of the team for the next few hours. He catches glimpses of Skye running a busy bar, and occasionally sees May in the kitchen. She’s still avoiding Phil. It’s never pleasant, when they avoid each other, but it’s not petty. It’s a strategy. Blowups in the kitchen are bad news for business, they both know that, and so they avoid one another. Strong doesn’t even begin to cover it. They’re amazing, his bosses. Being divorced isn’t easy for anyone, but running a restaurant together with a ragtag little team of staff has to be hell sometimes.

Ward pauses for breath in the gap before main and dessert, while his customers are still poring over the menu. He stands at his station and looks over his shoulder. Skye is pouring a line of shots for a group of young men, who are all fawning over her. Grant grits his teeth. It doesn’t bother him. Why would it bother him? They’re only slobbering over the bartender, everyone does that, why wouldn’t they? She’s gorgeous. Wait, _what?_

He shakes his head. That’s dangerous territory. Sure, Skye’s beautiful. Any idiot can see that. But he works with her. Phil and Melinda are outliers, and besides, they don’t sleep with each other anymore, as far as Grant knows. Things between co-workers always get messy. Always. It’s the cardinal rule, especially in hospitality. Don’t have feelings for anyone, ever.

He goes over to take an order from the elderly couple sitting by the window.

“I’ll have the apple pie,” the woman says, handing him her menu.

“I’ll have the lemon sorbet,” her husband decides. Grant drops his menu, and bends to pick it up.

“Are you alright, dear?”

He looks at the woman, surprised. “I’m fine, ma’am.”

“You keep looking over your shoulder,” she says. “I saw you do it at your station.”

There is the slightest touch of colour on his cheeks.

“Is it that girl?” the husband asks. “She’s a pretty thing.”

“Isn’t she just?” his wife smiles. “She seems lovely.”

“Can I get you any coffee?” Grant asks, his voice a little higher than usual. They decline, and he escapes their table.

When his work is done, and the kitchen finally shuts down, Grant lingers while he clears. He doesn’t want to see Skye. She’s confusing him tonight. The combination of his newly acquired information about her and her sharpness earlier means he doesn’t know how to approach her. He can’t think strategically, because she’s unpredictable, and he doesn’t like that at all.

“Let me give you a hand.”

It’s May again. Ward smiles, though he doesn’t really feel like company, and shifts to let her in on the table he’s clearing.

“It’s not just because you’re tired,” she says gently. Ward runs a hand over his face.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I thought I’d made progress with Skye, and with myself. I guess I was wrong.”

She places a hand over his on the table, and he glances at her, then over his shoulder.

“Stay after dinner,” she says, her voice low. He resists the urge to let his eyes flicker to the bar. He will not look at Skye.

May leaves the dining room, and Ward slowly packs up the last of the tables, leaving one set for their dinner. By the time he re-enters the kitchen, May is cooking for them, as she always is. She doesn’t look at him. There is no indication whatsoever that she is anything but indifferent to his presence behind him. When he thinks about it, she probably isn’t.

As they sit down for dinner, Skye appears with a dishtowel over her shoulder and her hair scraped back messily. She has been cleaning, and has finally closed up the bar. The young men took some bullying, but they have departed for downtown, where the clubs are open later, and bartenders more receptive to their half-drunken advances. She tucks into her plate of lasagna with an enthusiasm that makes Grant suspect that she hasn’t eaten all day. He refuses to let himself be concerned. What she eats or doesn’t eat is not his problem.

The table is unusually silent. Fitzsimmons are exchanging words occasionally. Phil and Melinda evidently need some more time apart, and Skye isn’t looking at Ward. Everyone is tired. Everyone needs to go home.

Fitz clears the plates when they’re done, and the two students take off. The university halls are only about twenty minutes’ walk from the restaurant, and as many times as Phil has protested, the pair of them refuse to let anyone drive them back at night. Phil’s convinced they’re going to wind up murdered, but the two of them seem happy enough to take the risk.

“Night,” Skye says abruptly. She stands as Phil does.

“You alright to lock up?” he asks, making eye contact with Melinda. She nods curtly, and he sighs, then leaves with Skye. Ward and May are left sitting across the table from one another.

“Long night,” he sighs. He stands, rolling his shoulders. “I’d better get home.”

“You’re not going home,” May says softly. She looks up at him and he grins in reply.

“Is that so?” he asks, folding his arms. It’s all show, though. When May wants something, she gets it, especially when he’s more than willing to give. Technically, sleeping with his boss isn’t against the rules. She makes the rules, after all. And it’s not like he’s breaking his own rules. He doesn’t feel anything for May, and she doesn’t feel anything for him. It’s win-win, and it certainly feels that way when May drags him to her car by his tie once she’s locked the restaurant. Pressed up against the driver’s door, she kisses him. Grant opens the door for her, gets in the passenger seat, and they drive for her place. As he watches street lights flash by, Grant thinks that perhaps this time, it will make him feel better rather than worse.


	5. You're hot when you swear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons is sick, but refuses to go home. People talk. Melinda tells Phil something important. Skye gets an unwelcome visitor.

When Ward walks in at five, Skye and May are setting up the first few tables. He joins them silently, because what does he have to say to them?

 _I wish you would talk to me,_ he wants to tell Skye. _I wish you wouldn’t feel so embarrassed that you told me about your life. I wish I’d told you about mine._

May is another matter entirely. He watches her back as she moves elegantly from place to place. _I wish I knew how I felt,_ he wants to say to his boss. _I wish I knew how to say no to you those nights when you drag me home with you._

He abandons all of that, opting instead not to say anything at all. When the dining room is set, May vanishes into the kitchen and Ward catches Skye watching her go, and for a brief moment, he wonders if May told her about the two of them. He shakes his head at his own idiocy. May would never say a word, and she’s threatened him mildly with death if he ever lets slip.

He avoids Skye’s gaze until he feels her standing right next to him.

“I wanted to say sorry,” she murmurs, touching him gingerly on the shoulder. “I was a bit of a dick to you yesterday. The combination of not sleeping and people learning all my secrets does that to me.”

He chuckles despite himself, and looks at her. She looks slightly incredulous.

“Did you just laugh?” she asks. “Oh my God, are you okay? Are you sick?”

She presses the back of her hand to his forehead and he laughs again. She follows suit, and pulls her hand back, grinning repentantly. All is forgiven. It feels good, Grant realises, to see her smile.

“Guys?”

It’s Fitz. He’s standing in the door, wringing his hands slightly. “I need your help.”

Grant sighs. “If you tell me you tinkered with Berta one more time-”

“It’s not that,” Fitz says, shaking his head. “And she’s only still going because of my _tinkering,_ so- that’s not the point. It’s Simmons.”

Skye starts forward before he’s even explained himself, and Grant doesn’t miss the look of concern on her face.

“What’s wrong?” she asks Fitz.

“She’s sick,” he says. “As far as I can tell. She _looks_ sick. But she keeps saying she’s fine. I don’t think she should be here tonight, but she’s insisting that she’s fine. Could you… could you come talk to her?”

Grant almost replies before he realises that Fitz is talking to Skye, not him. The bartender nods, and follows him out of the dining room and towards the back. Ward follows the pair of them. Skye’s not the only one who cares about the team. He does, deep down, even if he hasn’t quite admitted it to himself yet.

Simmons is standing over the sink, breathing deeply. Even from the side, Ward can see that she is pale, and holding herself far too stiffly.

“Jemma?” Fitz murmurs, reaching out to take her shoulder. She jumps, and turns to face them. She looks awful – like all the colour has drained from her face. She is shivering slightly.

“You’ve got to go home, Jemma,” Skye says, coming around to her other side and rubbing her back lightly. “You don’t look good.”

“I’m fine,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s fine. I just need to work.”

“You _need_ to be in bed,” Fitz says.

“Shut up, Fitz,” she snaps. He recoils slightly, and even Ward looks surprised.

“Alright,” Skye murmurs, squeezing her friend’s shoulder. “Just let us know if you want to bail, okay? One of us can drive you home.”

“Don’t need to,” Jemma mutters, picking up another pan to scrape. Fitz gives them a helpless look, and Skye bites her lip before heading to open the bar.

“Look out for her, okay?” Ward says quietly. Fitz nods, and he goes back to the dining room.

It’s an easy night behind the bar, and in a lull while it’s empty, Skye goes back to check on Jemma.

The kitchen hand is sitting on the steps to the upstairs storage rooms, looking much worse than she did an hour ago.

“Hey, Simmons,” Skye murmurs, taking a seat beside her.

“Aren’t you supposed to be running the bar?” Jemma says faintly.

“No one there,” Skye shrugs. “I thought I’d come and check on you.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” the girl insists again. Skye makes a derisive little noise, and the glare Jemma manages is so far from intimidating that it makes her laugh softly.

“It’s okay,” she says, wrapping an arm around the girl. “You’re just sick, it’s not a big deal.”

“I never get sick,” Jemma says thickly. “Back home, we don’t stop working just because we’ve got the sniffles. Americans.”

“England, right?” Skye asks. Jemma nods. “And Fitz is… Irish?”

“Never let him hear you say that,” she warns. “He’s Scottish.”

“What are you guys studying?” Skye asks.

“He’s in engineering,” she says, leaning against the wall. “I’m in Biochemistry.”

“Wow.”

“Wow because it sounds hard, or wow because you’re interested?” Jemma’s voice is wry, despite how weak it sounds.

“I’m not going to lie, it definitely sounds hard,” Skye grins. “I’m a high school dropout, so anything like that sounds hard. But I’ll bet it’s interesting.” She leans forward so she can see through the doorway to the bar. No customers yet. She’ll hear the tinkle of the door chimes when they come in.

“Do you two live in dorms?” she asks. Jemma nods.

“About twenty minutes away,” she says. “It’s student accommodation for the university. We have little flats.”

“Nice,” Skye nods. “How long have you been in the States?”

“We both arrived two years ago,” Jemma tells her. “We didn’t meet until six months in, though. A friend of mine introduced us. He thought it would work because we were ‘both British’.”

Skye laughs. “I’ll bet you’re glad you met, though.”

“So glad,” the girl sighs. “Fitz is my best friend in the world. We’re so…”

“In sync,” Skye supplies. Jemma nods.

“What about you?” Jemma asks. “Where are you from?”

“Don’t know,” Skye shrugs. “Originally, at least. I grew up in an orphanage. Came to the city the second I was old enough.”

“I’m sorry, Skye,” Jemma says, though her sympathy is punctuated with a cough.

“Don’t be,” Skye murmurs, rubbing her friend’s back. “I’m not.”

“Everything okay?”

They look up, and it’s Ward, wiping something off his shirt. He looks down at the mark, then up at them.

“A toddler threw a meatball at me,” he explains, then looks confused when the pair of them laugh.

Jemma coughs again, and Ward looks down at her.

“You really need to go home, Simmons,” he says. The girl is already shaking her head.

“I’m fine,” she insists, for what must be the tenth time tonight.

“You’re not fine,” he says, folding his arms. “And a restaurant is no place for someone who’s sick, okay? Just let Fitz take you home.”

“For the last time, Ward,” Jemma sighs, standing up and trying to walk past him. “I’m-”

She is cut off when her eyes roll up into her head. She crumples, and Ward’s arm shoots out to catch her before she hits the floor.

“Jemma?” Skye demands. Fitz skids into the room and finds Jemma trying to push Ward away while he sets her upright. She’s deathly pale, and even Ward looks worried.

“Take her home, Fitz,” he says firmly. May appears in the doorway.

“Is everything- Jemma, what’s wrong?” she asks, spotting the kitchen hand’s pale face.

“She’s sick,” Skye tells her boss. “Fitz is going to take her home.”

“Take my car,” Melinda says immediately, fishing the keys out of her pocket. “Here- you can drive, can’t you?”

“Yes I can _drive,_ ” Fitz says, rolling his eyes. He takes the keys with a grateful look, and winds his arm around Jemma’s waist. She’s stopped protesting now.

“It’s gonna be okay, Jem,” Fitz murmurs, as he helps her towards the door. Ward catches Skye smiling softly as the two students disappear.

“This means we’re all on dishes tonight,” May says tersely, and vanishes out of the kitchen. Ward swears softly, and when he looks up, Skye has a strange expression on her face.

“What?” he asks.

“Say that again,” she grins. “You’re hot when you swear.”

With that, she swans out, back to the bar. Ward is left to wonder what exactly she meant by that. Probably exactly what she said. The thought sends a little thrill through him, which he quashes immediately, but it’s too late. That teasing grin is stuck in his head, and it makes him smile as he serves his first customers.

In the kitchen, Phil is cooking steadily. May comes to help, and her ex-husband turns to her.

“Is Jemma alright?” he asks.

“Fitz took her home,” May tells him. “Extra dishes for us.”

Phil sighs, and turns back to the grill. May leans on the counter.

“Are we still fighting?” she asks.

“We were never fighting,” Phil replies. “Isn’t that the idea of the silent treatment thing? So we don’t fight in front of the kids?”

She chuckles, and sees a slight smile on his face. Victory.

“As long as we can be honest with each other,” he says, flipping a few burgers, “we’ll be okay. Homeland will be okay.”

May bites her lip, and he looks at her. “Something you want to say?”

“Ward and I have been having sex,” she says, clearly and firmly.

“I know,” he nods.

“You-”

“I’m not blind, Melinda,” he says, laughing softly. There seems to be no bitterness in the sound, and May is grateful in that moment for the tolerant miracle that is Phil Coulson.

“As long as it doesn’t get in the way of work,” he says. She distinctly remembers him saying something similar to her a long time ago.

“You’re not upset,” she points out. It’s not quite a question.

“I’m not your boss or your husband anymore,” he says, flipping the burgers again. “It’s none of my business who you sleep with. Just look after yourself, okay?”

“Thanks, Phil,” she says, though him giving his blessing hasn’t exactly made her feel better about her little arrangement with Ward.

“Anytime, Melinda,” he answers. She leaves, opting to deal with the dishes for a while instead of her problems.

Behind the bar, Skye looks up when the door chimes go off. She has a few people sitting here and there, mostly happy, but her face falls when she recognises her newest customer.

“Evening, hot stuff,” Ian Quinn leers, as he sits at the bar. “I’ll have a glass of whatever tastes the least like piss.”


	6. A Good Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn is a creep. Skye watches Ward go home with May. Skye and Phil get some father-daughter bonding time over burgers and beer.

Dinner service is almost half-done, but Ward is busy in the dining room, and May and Phil in the kitchen. Skye can’t call on any of them to come rescue her, and Quinn knows it.

“Well?” the man says, tapping on the bar. “I’m waiting.”

Her other customers are glancing at them, so Skye pours him a beer and sets it down in front of him. He grins at her.

“Thanks,” he says. She decides flirty is probably the way to go here, and smiles back.

“Excuse me,” she says, and turns to head up the bar towards the other end. He reaches over and grabs her arm.

“Come on, stay a while,” he purrs. She has to fight the urge to punch him.

“I have other customers, silly,” she giggles, pushing him playfully away.

“They’re not as important as me,” he says, shaking his head. “C’mon, stay. You’ll be glad you did.”

She swallows a shudder, and picks up a glass to polish. It doesn’t really need polishing, but she feels better having something in her hands she can use as a weapon.

“So tell me about yourself, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re far too pretty to be working in this dump.”

“I like it here,” she shrugs. “The people are nice, the pay’s good-”

“If it’s good pay you’re after,” he says, sucking down some of his beer, “then you should come work for me. I offer _very_ competitive rates.”

“Like I said,” she murmurs, “I like the people.”

“What, the ringmaster and his ex-wife? The block of ice they call a waiter?” Quinn laughs nastily, and Skye wants to slap him. “You can do much better than that in this city.”

“I’m not sure,” she shrugs. “They’ve been good to me.”

He leans over the bar. “I’d be good to you.”

She giggles, but she feels sick. “I can’t date my customers.”

“Who said anything about dating?” he grins. Skye looks around for someone, anyone to save her.

“So, what do you do?” she asks, stepping back on the pretence of wiping down the rear counter. “Are you a politician or something?”

“Ooh, little girl’s got a brain on her,” he mocks. “Not quite. I own a few tech companies that have made me very rich and very influential. It’s not a bad life.”

“Sounds great,” she smiles over her shoulder.

“Still thinking about that trip to wine country?” he asks. He’s leaning on the counter like he’s going to reach out and grab her again. Skye wishes she’d worn a sweater over her low-cut top.

“I don’t really like wine,” she panics.

“Everyone likes wine,” Quinn tells her, downing more of his beer. “And if they don’t, they definitely like private jets. Come with me.”

“I don’t think so,” she says, shaking her head.

“Come with me,” he says again.

“No,” she says firmly, turning around. Quinn seems triumphant, and Skye realises she’s let down her giggly, flirtatious façade.

“You’re a lot less stupid than you look,” he says, running his fingers up and down his glass. “What is it, the waiter? Ward? Is he really who you’ve got your eye on?”

“I haven’t got my eye on anyone,” she tells him, moving a few steps up the bar.

“Right, I’m sure you haven’t been eyeing anyone off,” he sneers. “I know your type, you little sl-”

“Evening, Quinn,” Phil says, stepping into the bar. Quinn jumps slightly, and Skye gives a tiny, satisfied smirk.

“Evening, Coulson,” Quinn replies. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?”

“My wonderful ex-wife is handling things in there, so I thought I’d come handle things in here,” Phil says. His tone is hard, and there is an angry glint in his eye. He knows what Quinn was about to call Skye. No one insults his staff. His staff are his family.

“Nothing to handle,” Quinn says easily, sliding out of his seat. “I was just going.”

“I thought so,” Phil smiles. “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Quinn.”

“Yeah,” Quinn mutters. “You can shove your pleasant evening up your-”

“Night!” Skye chimes in. He shoots her a glare, and walks away.

“You okay?” Phil asks, leaning on the bar.

“I’m fine,” she sighs. “Why does he even come here? Literally all he does is trash the place and creep people out.”

“That’s his idea of a good night out,” Phil shrugs. “He’s a dick. Nothing else to it.” Phil glances over his shoulder. “I’d better get back in there. Ward’s been taking orders like crazy. May’s handling the dishes. If you can, shut down early tonight. We’ll need the extra help."

Skye nods, and Phil vanishes out of the bar and into the dining room.

Dinner service is longer than usual, and when Skye finally packs up the bar, they’re still serving dessert. Phil waves her over to the pass, and she finds herself with a tray of chocolate cake slices.

“Take these to table five,” Phil says briskly.

“Gotcha,” Skye nods. “Uh… which one is table five?”

“By the window,” Ward says, appearing beside her. She looks up, and his tie is slightly loosened, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to the elbows. His hair is slightly tousled.

“What?” he asks, frowning quizzically.

“Um… nothing,” she manages, and takes her desserts to the table.

“Are you new?” one of the women on the table asks.

“Yeah,” Skye smiles. “I work the bar, I’m just helping out tonight.”

“You’re pretty!” a little boy chirps from his chair. “I like you better than the grumpy man.”

“George,” his mother scolds. “Don’t call him that.”

“It’s fine, little guy,” Skye says, as she hands out the plates of cake. “We call him that too.”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt him to smile once in a while,” one of the women says. Skye grins, and takes her tray.

“Those beautiful women think you should smile more,” she tells her colleague, prodding him in the shoulder with her tray. He rolls his eyes, and she ducks into the kitchen and out the back to help May with the dishes.

Later, Skye goes back to the bar to grab her bag and jacket. The dining room lights have been switched off, as have the ones in the kitchen. No one was feeling much like dinner tonight, so May opted out of cooking and they are all heading home. Skye pauses in the doorway of the bar when she hears talking.

“Yours or mine?”

“Stupid question.”

It’s Ward and May, standing under the exit sign over the door.

“Legitimate question,” Ward complains. “Come on, my place is fine-”

“My place,” May snaps. “End of discussion.”

“Fine,” Ward says, and Skye can’t see it, but she’s sure that he’s rolling his eyes. She grips the doorframe when May grabs him by the tie and kisses him firmly. He is just returning the kiss when she opens the door and drags him outside. Their voices are cut off, and Skye is left leaning in the doorway. Ward and May. Well there’s something she wasn’t expecting.

She finds Phil outside, standing in the shadows under the awnings.

“Did you see…” Skye trails off. If Phil doesn’t know, she doesn’t want to be the one to tell him.

“Yeah,” he sighs.

“That’s gotta be fun for you,” she says.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he mutters, shaking his head. Skye sits next to him, and he sighs.

“Shouldn’t you be getting home?” he asks.

“I don’t know if Ward told you,” she murmurs, “but ‘home’ is a fairly flexible situation for me.”

Phil nods, and Skye knows that he knows. Phil seems to know everything, even things he would rather not.

“Come on,” he says abruptly. “No point sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves. We haven’t had dinner yet.” He offers her his arm. “Let’s go get some food and watch old people mistake you for my daughter.”

She laughs, but the idea of Phil pretending to be her father makes her feel oddly happy. She takes his arm, and he leads her to his red Corvette.

“This is an awesome car, by the way,” she says, climbing into the passenger seat.

“I know,” Phil smiles, and drives them away from Homeland.

The pub he takes her to is a quiet little place, carpeted, with a dark wooden bar. It’s fairly busy, and the food smells delicious. He gets them both beer and burgers, and finds them a little table in the corner.

“So have Ward and May been doing this for a long time?” she asks quietly, taking a sip of her drink.

“May only admitted it to me tonight,” he shrugs, “but I’m pretty sure it’s been going on about eight months, maybe nine. That’s when I started noticing it, anyway.”

“They don’t seem like a great couple,” Skye mutters.

“They’re surprisingly similar,” Phil says. “Neither of them are very good with people – May’s better now than she was, but you should have seen her in the old days – they’re both stubborn, and neither of them like talking about their feelings.”

“Ah yes, having sex makes total sense,” Skye sighs. “Your restaurant’s different to how I thought it would be.”

“Homeland grows on you,” he tells her.

“How did you get here?” she asks. “If that’s not… I just mean… you’re running a restaurant with your ex-wife. How did that happen?”

Phil considers her question. “May and I worked in the same restaurant for a long time, long before Homeland. I was her manager, but we hated our boss. One day, when we’d saved enough money, we quit together, went to the bank and got a loan to start our own business. We were dating, and we got married. It was pretty quick, quicker than it should have been. The restaurant did really well. The marriage... not so much.”

Skye smiles. “You guys seem like you get along fine.”

“May’s my best friend,” Phil says. “And I love her dearly. But we weren’t meant to get married, and I don’t think we were ever supposed to be together. If keeping her in my life means that things get a bit awkward sometimes, then that’s what I’ll do. We talked it over a lot before we got divorced. We’re good.”

“That’s amazing,” Skye says. “I don’t know if I could have done what you did.”

“Homeland’s good at keeping people together,” Phil tells her. “And you’re a good fit.”

“You think so?” she asks, resting her chin on her hand. “I’ve tried to learn from Ward, I really have. I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“You’re a change,” Phil says. “Ward doesn’t like change. He took a long time to warm up to Fitz and Simmons.”

She shakes her head. “I haven’t exactly been the friendliest person.”

“You should have met him when he first started as a kitchen hand,” Phil chuckles. “He was _awful_ as a waiter. Customers complained about him no end. He’s very….”

“Tactical?” Skye offers. Phil nods, laughing softly.

“He’s still finding himself, after all this time,” he says. “Don’t give up on him just yet. This thing with May, it’s a holding pattern. He’ll figure out what he wants.”

Skye nods. Listening to Phil is like listening to a dad she never knew she wanted until now.

“You guys are good people,” she says, trying to hide the catch in her voice with a mouthful of her drink.

“We’re here for you,” Phil smiles, reaching across to take her hand. “Don’t you forget it, okay?”

“Okay,” she smiles. They eat, chatting, and when they are done, Phil drives her back to where she parks her van. She hugs him, and he watches until she’s locked the doors behind her before he drives away.


	7. Something Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ward hits his head, and sees things he'd much rather forget. He goes to Skye, and she learns a lot more about him than she bargained for.

Ward is closing down the dining room. The place is a mess after a busy night, but his mind is even messier, as much as he tries to calm the storm. Another night with May has well and truly thrown him off balance. It makes him feel better for a few hours, and then as he walks back to the restaurant to get his bike, he always comes to the slow realisation that he’s a horrible person. He always resolves to stop seeing May, but without fail, maybe a few nights later, maybe a week, maybe a month, she’ll call and he’ll come running back again.

It drives him crazy. After a while, stacking dishes and wiping tables soothes him a little. He carries a bucket of dirty tablecloths upstairs to the washing machines, and down again. The bar won’t shut down for another hour, so he leaves a few tables set, in case anyone wants coffee and dessert.

Fitz has a stack of dishes precariously placed in the sink, and is rinsing them off one by one while Jemma stacks them into Berta. The dishes after a big night take almost as long to finish as the bar does to shut down. Ward sets his tub of plates and cutlery on the sideboard, and turns to leave.

“Careful,” Fitz warns. “The floor’s-”

Ward’s foot shoots out from underneath him. He hears Jemma gasp, and a smashing sound before the back of his head collides with the corner of the bench. He sees stars, and hits the ground with a grunt. Everything is spinning. He can hear voices around him, someone shouts. He can’t make sense of it. He hears another voice.

“Grant?”

He knows that voice. He knows it well.

“Grant, are you okay?”

There it is again. It can only be one person. A frightened little voice.

“Talk to me, Grant.”

His little brother. God, it’s his little brother. He’s here. He needs protecting. Something bad has happened, or is happening now, he has to save-

“Grant?”

He opens his eyes and finds himself looking at Jemma’s upside-down face.

“You okay?” she asks gently. He struggles upright, looking wildly around.

“I…” he frowns. “I… my brother was… what happened?”

“You hit your head,” Jemma soothes. “Don’t stand-”

He is already standing up, rubbing the back of his head and wincing. He looks around, still searching for the source of the voice. His little brother. Is he imagining things?

“You need to sit down,” she says, her voice gentle.

“I’m fine,” he says, shaking his head. It hurts.

“You hit your head pretty hard, Ward,” Fitz says. “Are you sure you’re-”

“I’m _fine,_ ” he snaps. He’s finished for the night anyway. “I’ll help… I’ll help with the dishes, let me help with the dishes.”

“Go sit down,” Jemma says firmly. “Fitz and I will handle it. Go.”

He scowls, and stumbles out of the kitchen, clutching the back of his head. He feels disoriented, and something dark has opened up in his chest at the thought of his little brother.

“Hey, Ward,” Skye smiles, when he flops down onto a barstool. “What’s up?”

“I want a drink,” he mutters, touching the back of his head again. His fingers come away red, and Skye’s eyes widen in alarm.

“Is that blood?” she demands, grabbing his hand. “Oh my God, Ward, is your head bleeding? What happened?”

“Fell,” he mumbles, as she spins him around on the stool so she can inspect the back of his head. “Nothing serious.”

“You’re _bleeding,_ ” she says, frowning. Not much, admittedly, but he is still injured. “Are you okay?”

“I feel fine,” he sighs. “Can I just have a drink?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m not serving anyone with a head injury.”

“Come _on,_ Skye,” he begs. “I just want something to drink.”

“Come here,” she says. She scruffs him, and he makes a slight noise of surprise. “Sit,” she says, easing him down to sit behind the bar, out of sight of the patrons. He slides down with a huff. She passes him something, and for a moment he thinks it’s a drink. It’s a handful of ice in a plastic bag, wrapped in a dishtowel. He sighs, and presses it against the back of his head.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, looking up at her.

“Is there anything you need done in the dining room?” she asks brusquely. “I can get it done for you.”

“I’m finished,” he says, shaking his head. He winces as his head throbs.

Skye pours a few drinks for customers, then bobs down to check on him.

“You look upset,” she murmurs, reaching out to move the ice and check his head. “And not just because you tried to brain yourself on a bench. What’s up?”

He avoids looking at her for a moment, wondering how she manages to see right through him every time he tries to hide things.

“I heard my brother,” he murmurs. “Just for a moment, I thought… I thought he was there.”

“What’s your brother like?” she asks, standing up and leaning on the bar as she cleans some glasses.

“He died about twelve years ago,” Grant murmurs. Her face falls slightly, and she crouches again to squeeze his knee.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. She has to straighten up and serve a customer, then she’s back leaning against the rear counter, looking down at him.

“He and I were close,” Grant sighs. “Really close. It was us against our older brother. And our dad.”

“Your dad?” Skye asks, though she seems to know the answer already.

“He was an asshole,” Grant says, and it’s through gritted teeth like it always is when he talks or thinks about his father. “He was an abusive drunken asshole. He’s gone too.” _Thank God_ , he doesn’t add.

Skye’s fingers brush his shoulder and she steps away to serve a few more customers. The clientele is receding, and after about five minutes, she rings the last call bell. There are no takers, so she drops down to sit beside Ward.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, slightly helplessly.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “It was over a long time ago. It’s no one’s fault but his.”

“Your brother,” she says quietly. “How…”

“He drowned,” Ward says, and there’s a catch in his voice that’s never there. His head is a dark place right now, and he can see the police cars around the well, can see them lifting his brother’s pale, dripping body out of the water. He didn’t believe he was dead until they wrapped him in a sheet. His father was drunk. He wasn’t even there. Ward called the police himself.

He doesn’t realise he’s closed his eyes until he becomes aware of a warm arm around his shoulders. Skye is holding him to her, protectively, and briefly he imagines growing up with a friend like this – someone who might hate him, but is kind enough to look past it and show compassion when he needs it.

“I guess it’s not a surprise I’m shitty with people,” he sighs. She bites her lip, and squeezes his shoulder. It’s surprisingly comforting.

“You have a reason,” she murmurs. “I knew that already. Everyone has a reason.”

He thinks on her reason. Abandoned. Probably never felt like she fit in. Desperate to make it in a friendly place, but not sure if people really care for her, or whether it’s just a show for the social workers. And yet she feels sorry for him. Despite her own past, despite everything she’s had to put up with, she is compassionate. Sarcastic beyond belief, yes, snarky, yes, but kind. He marvels at her.

“Sometimes I wish I’d had a dad,” she murmurs. “At least the nuns were good, most of the time.”

He shakes his head. “I would have killed for the chance to take my brother and live with nuns. I would have given anything. Especially if I’d known…”

His mind shoots back to the well, to the hollow days after. His father beat him mercilessly. Blamed him. Grant is still not sure if the bastard ever showed any grief other than through the bruises on his middle son’s skin. His older brother did the same. Their mother drank herself into a stupor and never came out. Grant bore it, because he had no one to protect anymore. It never occurred to him at twelve years old that it was worth protecting himself.

“Grant?”

She is crouched in front of him now, clearly worried.

“I ran away,” he murmurs. He considers reaching for her hand. This comfort thing is foreign to him, but it makes him feel good. Better. Can it be that talking solves more problems than sex?

“What do you mean?” she asks. The last customer has left, and the bar is empty.

“When I turned thirteen,” he murmurs. “On my birthday. My parents forgot. Dad was passed out drunk. My brother went down to the river to fish. And I ran away.”

“Where did you go?” she murmurs, her eyes widening.

“I don’t remember,” he shrugs. “They didn’t call the police, though. No one knew I was gone until the school called and said I’d been absent for a few days. By that time I’d crossed the border into Connecticut. I worked my way down towards New York, and ended up on a cross-country train. Jumped off in Colorado and spent a couple years working as an errand boy for a sketchy little company on the edge of town. I still don’t know what they do.”

She is watching him now, engrossed, still sympathetic, and she has one hand on his knee. Ward doesn’t know why his story is pouring out of him like this – he hasn’t even told Phil the entire thing.

“When I turned sixteen, I looked eighteen,” he sighs. “I started working in restaurants, a few bars, mostly as a bus boy. When I turned twenty, I met a friend of Phil’s on the circuit. I’d just lost another job, and he took me to Phil. I guess he thought if anyone could fix me, it was Coulson, and Homeland. He’s still trying.”

He is exhausted now. It’s been almost an hour since he sat down, and the life has been drained out of him. Skye is looking at him like she’s seeing a new person, and suddenly he is afraid that he’s said far too much.

“Come on,” she says eventually, standing up and offering him her hand. “Let’s get you home.”

He takes the offered hand and lets her haul him upright. Standing up, the world seems clearer. He feels like something has lifted off his shoulders.

“If I had a place, I’d offer you the couch for the night,” she murmurs. “You look like you don’t need to be alone right now.”

“I’ll be fine,” he sighs. They hear a knock. Jemma is standing in the door.

“We’re taking off,” she murmurs. “Phil’s ordered you a cab, Ward.”

He starts to protest, but Skye gives him a look. “You hit your head, Ward,” she chides. “Hard. You shouldn’t be driving anything, definitely not a motorbike. Okay?”

“Okay,” he sighs. He looks at her, and bites his lip. “Thank you, Skye.”

“What are bartenders for, if not for listening to other people’s stories?” she asks, smiling lightly. She goes for a light punch to the arm, but then hesitantly leans in and hugs him. Ward barely tenses before he returns the hug, pressing his face into her shoulder for the briefest of moments before he lets her go.

“Night, Skye,” he murmurs, smiling wearily at her.

“Goodnight, Grant,” she replies. As he turns away, Skye catches Jemma’s pointed look, but ignores it. She’s just helping a friend in need. There’s no harm in that.


	8. Easy Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant and Melinda have a chat. Grant and Phil have a chat. Ward helps Skye close down the bar. There is music, drinking, dancing and other things.

Ward arrives at five, and Melinda is waiting for him. Instinctively, he knows what this is about, and that knowledge doesn’t stop him from trying to skirt around her into the dining room.

“Ward,” she says, stepping in front of him. “We have to talk.”

He sighs, and lets her pull him off to one side of the kitchen. Fitz and Simmons have already arrived, and are prepping vegetables and chattering loudly in the next room.

“This can’t happen anymore,” May says. Ward finds that he’s more relieved than anything.

“I know,” he says, because she looks like she wants a response. “It’s probably for the best. Phil would never be okay with it.”

“He’s fine with it,” May shrugs. “That’s not why it can’t happen anymore.”

“Then wh- wait, Phil’s _what?”_ Grant splutters, panicked. “Did you-”

“I told him,” May says, placidly, smoothly, like it’s not a big deal.

“Why the fuck would you _tell_ him?” Grant demands, looking over his shoulder in case Phil’s already there.

“I don’t like keeping secrets from Phil,” May shrugs. “And I don’t need you getting emotionally attached. We’re done. Alright?”

He manages to nod, and goes shakily out to the dining room. Setting for dinner service is a twitchy experience. He can hear Phil pottering about in the kitchen, and he’s just waiting for the inevitable explosion that will surely come with his boss’s confrontation. Phil can’t be happy about this. He and Melinda might not be married anymore, but it would take an idiot not to see that they’re still close. They run a restaurant together, for God’s sake.

While Grant questions his entire decision-making process, he fails to notice Phil emerging from the kitchen. His boss is standing behind him before Ward looks over his shoulder and starts guiltily.

“Hey, Phil,” he says, casually, like he didn’t spend last night in Melinda’s bed.

“Hi, Grant,” Phil replies, his tone even.

Ward lets the silence stretch a little further between them, hoping it’s about something else. When Phil doesn’t back down, Grant sighs, and his shoulders slump ever so slightly.

“I didn’t think she’d tell you,” he murmurs, keeping Phil’s gaze. His boss deserves that, at least. “I would have preferred it if it had stayed between her and me.”

“Is it still going on?” Phil asks. His arms are folded.

“No,” Grant says, shaking his head. “No, it’s done. I was more of a stress ball than anything, I think.”

Phil chuckles, and Ward allows himself a little hope.

“Am I fired?” he asks his boss.

“Grant,” Phil sighs, unfolding his arms, “if everyone in hospitality who ever slept together got fired, no restaurant would ever function.”

Ward feels relief wash over him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, biting the inside of his cheek. He’s still not sure if Phil is angry or not.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Phil says, at length. “You and Melinda are two consenting adults. What you do on your own time is none of my business, and I trust you both. Relax, Ward. You’re not in trouble.”

Phil slaps his shoulder and leaves the dining room. Ward is left standing there, slightly astonished. In the space of fifteen minutes, May has dropped him, and Phil has forgiven him. It has been a better start to the day than he expected when he woke up.

His shift goes well. People are receptive to his smile, and he is starting to like the whole idea of his job not being merely functional and factual, as he once thought. These are people he’s serving, real people, and they want to talk, and laugh. It makes him smile. He doesn’t even get huffy when a child spills food onto the floor. He just shrugs, waves off the apologies of the table and cleans up. He likes this side of his job, he realises. For the first time in his life, he likes the people he serves.

When it’s done, and the last of the diners have trickled out, he slips behind the bar to help Skye with her last few customers of the night. She doesn’t miss his animated smile, and the way he’s actually _talking_ to the customers. It’s very out of character for him, he knows that. When she rings the bell and they serve the last round of drinks, she turns on him.

“What’s got you so happy?” she asks. He shrugs.

“Just had a good day,” he answers. Her expression tightens a little, and she turns to serve her last customer. When he’s gone, and the door closes, she goes over and locks it, then starts wiping down the bar.

May calls dinner halfway through her cleaning routine, and they both go in to eat and chat with the others. Fitz and Simmons are, as ever, discussing a new dishwasher with Phil. May is quiet, and looks anywhere but Ward, which is not at all lost on Skye.

When dinner is over, May clears the plates and dismisses everyone. Phil squeezes her shoulder briefly as he goes to leave. Fitz and Simmons pack up, and are gone within minutes.

“I’ve got to keep cleaning,” Skye says. “Is it alright if I lock up?”

“Sure,” Phil says. “You’ve got the key. Don’t forget to turn all the lights out.”

“Will do,” she smiles.

“I’ll help you,” Ward offers. Skye gives him a quick smile that doesn’t really seem genuine. May leaves, and Ward ignores the look he’s getting from Phil. Soon, it is just him and Skye in the restaurant. They go back to the bar.

Ward goes over to the ancient sound system and rifles through Phil’s CDs. If their boss could have managed to get a record player in here, Grant knows he would have. But for now, they have to settle for something only slightly less archaic. He pulls out a collection of some crooner from the fifties and slips it in in place of the quiet jazz that’s been playing on a loop all night. He turns it up a little and grabs the broken glass tub for her, taking it out and emptying it. When he comes back, she’s leaning on the bar, dishtowel over one shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re helping,” she says, glancing at the empty tub in his hands.

“I said I would,” he says, frowning. “I thought…”

He trails off and she laughs, her face dissolving into a warm smile.

“I’m teasing, idiot,” she laughs, and gets back to stacking dirty glasses. She loads them into the little dishwasher under the bar, and when she turns back he’s resting on the bar, humming along to an old familiar tune.

“You want a drink?” Skye asks. He nods with a smile, and closes his eyes.

“ _Living for you… is easy living…”_

“Here,” she says, pressing a scotch into his hands. She’s drinking the same.

“ _It’s easy to live,_ ” he sings, taking her hand and spinning her gently. “ _When you’re in love...”_

“Are you drunk already?” Skye asks, pulling away from him with a smile. “Careful,” she warns, sipping her drink. “A girl might get the wrong impression.”

Grant smiles, and downs some more of his drink, then sets the glass on the table. “Haven’t you ever danced in a closed bar before?” he asks, smiling lazily. Skye sets her glass down next to his and lets him take her hand. He reaches over and turns up the music, pulling her in. They begin a slow, clumsy dance, and Grant keeps on singing under his breath.

“ _For you… maybe I’m a fool, but it’s fun…”_

She laughs, and he feels warmth thrill through his chest. They move, Grant guiding her for the most part.

“ _People say you rule me with one wave of your hand…”_

Every few steps she’ll press against him. When she stumbles, Grant’s hand is there on her back, pulling her upright, keeping them moving.

_“Darling, it’s grand…”_

She flicks her hair out of her eyes, and her cheeks are flushed, her smile warm, her eyes sparkling, and Grant knows he’s hopelessly trapped.

“ _They just don’t understand…”_

“Where did you learn to dance?” she murmurs, letting him spin her gently.

“Here and there,” he shrugs. “I’m not sure, really.”

“Natural talent?” she chuckles.

He smiles, acutely aware that he essentially has his arms around her. The music plays on, but Grant doesn’t sing the rest of it. What if he’s singing to her? What does that mean for him? His head is everywhere right now. He can’t quite control the things that are happening in his mind, and maybe that’s a good thing. Skye laughs, and trips again, falling against his chest. He catches her, but then they’re pressed together, as that voice croons in the background and inside Grant’s head.

_And I’m so in love, there’s nothing in life but you…_

He sets her upright, and she is blushing now. Grant wants to change the song. This one was the wrong choice. It’s too much for him right now.

“Grant?” she murmurs. He looks down. They’re so close together. It would be so easy to close that distance, to scoop her into his arms and kiss her like he so desperately wants to…

“Skye,” he replies, lost. She seems to think for a moment, and her expression hardens. She pulls away, and he frowns, confused.

“Skye?” he asks. He reaches out for her. He wants this. Wants her.

“Don’t,” she says softly. She turns, and grabs her jacket and bag from behind the bar. Then she switches off the music.

“Skye,” he protests. He’s just saying the same word over and over. It’s the only thing that makes sense right now. “Skye, wait… come on, don’t-”

“Answer this,” she says firmly, turning in the doorway as she pulls her jacket on. “Did you go home with May last night?”

His mouth is open. He can feel it.

She nods. “I thought so. And did you go home with May the night before last? And last week?”

He wants to protest, to tell her that this is different, that May doesn’t want him, she doesn’t even like him.

“Grant,” she says, clicking her fingers. “Wake up. You don’t want me. You want something, but it’s not me.”

He shakes his head, and moves towards her. “Skye, that’s not true,” he manages, at last. “This is different.”

“I know you think it is,” she murmurs. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. But this is not going to happen.”

She turns and leaves him standing there, alone in the empty bar. He hears the door close, and he sits down on a barstool, numbly taking his unfinished scotch in hand.

How has he managed to screw up this badly? All he did was smile, and sing a bit, and dance with her, and he still managed to do everything wrong. What is it about him? Too emotional for May, Skye thinks he’s a robot who screws anything that moves… he can’t win. He turns his glass around, wondering what he could have done differently. Skye is hurting at the discovery of him and May. He wants to tell her that it’s over – why didn’t he tell her before? He curses himself, and downs his drink. He’s fucking useless. Always has been. Perhaps his dad was right. How could he ever make anyone happy?

When he finishes his drink, he finishes Skye’s as well, then takes the two glasses to the sink and washes and dries them himself. He places them on the bar for Skye to find in the morning, and turns off all the lights. The sound of the door closing is heavy and hollow, and Grant can kind of identify with it as he gets on his bike and heads home.


	9. un-screw, un-feel, un-do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye has learned a few things. Ward gets snappy. Quinn is back, and creepier than ever. Skye deals with him.

Ward loses track of time the next evening, something that almost never happens, and when he looks up, he’s half an hour late for work. He almost comes off his bike three or four times in his haste to get to the restaurant, but instead of whatever uproar he is expecting, he finds the dining room already set and ready for him.

“Did you set the dining room?” he asks May, as she passes him on the way through to the kitchen.

“Skye came early,” his boss shrugs, and continues on her way. Grant leans in the doorway, stunned. The whole room is set, exactly as he does it every night. _Skye_ has done this? Why?

Last night is still confusing him in every way possible, and he is hesitant to go to the bar. He can see Skye now and then, moving here and there behind the bar, setting up her own station for the night. Despite his screw-ups in the last few weeks, he feels a stab of pride for Skye. She has paid attention and learned well.

After considering for almost ten minutes, Grant finally gets up the courage to go in and talk to Skye. After all, he didn’t really _do_ anything last night. It was more what he did before last night… He puts it out of his head. Right now is not about his mistakes.

“Hey,” he smiles, as he approaches the bar. “Great job on the dining room. I owe you one.”

“Glad I could help,” she says, without much emotion to her tone. The absence of her smile makes him uneasy.

“It was perfect,” he adds, hoping to at least see a twitch of the lips. She looks up, and regards him with a gaze that is cool but not unkind.

“Did you need something?” she asks. He shakes his head, faltering. This is not familiar territory. He has offended her, and he can’t fix it, can’t un-screw his boss, can’t un-feel what he felt last night, can’t make her un-think what she’s thinking now as she looks at him with that bored, faintly challenging stare.

He senses someone behind him, and turns to find May in the doorway of the bar.

“The dining room looks great,” she smiles, nodding at Skye.

“I was just telling her,” Grant interjects, like he can lay claim to the compliment to win Skye over. All he gets is an icy look from Melinda. She leaves, and he hears a faint scoff from Skye. Something clenches in his chest, and he turns to face her again.

“You told me to smile,” he says, his tone dipping towards cold. “You told me to make an effort with people. I’m making an effort.”

“You poor thing,” she replies, sarcasm dripping from every word. “That must be so difficult for you, acting like a human being.”

“Get your head out of your ass, Skye,” he snaps. “No one’s perfect, especially the people you work with right here. We’re all fucked, so stop acting like you’re better than me.”

He has taken her by surprise – and if he’s honest, Grant’s pretty shocked at himself too. Instead of taking it back and apologising, he turns and walks out of the bar and to his station to await his first customers. He doesn’t look back at the bar.

Skye watches his back as he leaves. His outburst was unexpected, and undeserved, in her opinion. It isn’t her fault he slept with May. It isn’t her fault he seduced her last night with music and singing and booze and touching… she has to shake her head to get his body out of it. Warm. Muscular. Completely out of bounds until he stops acting like a dick.

Her first few customers arrive, and she serves them with a smile on her face. It’s not genuine tonight. She’s not feeling it.

Ward’s snappy comments have struck her. Is she really as fucked as he is? Her gut tells her yes, it’s why she feels like she belongs here. No one judges her, because they’re all as bad or worse than she is, with the exception of Fitz and Simmons. But they have their own issues to work out, namely the relationship waiting to happen that they both seem to be completely unaware of. It makes Skye smile for a few minutes, thinking about her clueless little dish washers and how perfect they are for each other. She’s never actually met a pair of people who finishes each other’s sentences before.

She is jerked from her reverie by new drink orders. The bar is slowly heating up, and Skye is glad of the work. It keeps her mind off Grant, and her own mistakes.

She chats with the customers for a while, dropping in and out of conversations here and there. There is a giggly young couple at one end of the bar who are completely oblivious to her, a few of her regular truckers in the middle who are more than happy to tell her about work, or their families, or anything else. She moves here and there amongst the patrons, making sure everyone is happy. Taking care of others has never been a priority of hers, and she wonders if that’s because she never realised she’d like it this much. Seeing people smile when they catch sight of her is a completely novel experience. The night wears on, and customers come and go in a steady stream, keeping her on her feet.

The chimes over the door ring, and she looks up to see who her newest customer is. Her face falls when she sees Ian Quinn enter. He makes his way slowly to the bar, and sits clumsily just off the middle, a couple of stools away from her truckers.

“Evenin’, sweetheart,” he calls, a little too loudly. Skye is standing three feet away and she can smell the booze on his breath. Drunk.

“Quinn,” she replies coldly.

“Get your beautiful ass over here,” he demands, banging his fist lightly over the bar. “I want a whiskey.”

She deliberately ignores him for a moment.

“Hey!” he says, his voice raising. He is getting a couple of looks from the truckers further down the bar. “Did you hear me, sugar?”

“It’s Skye,” she says pleasantly, thumping a whiskey down in front of him. He leers, and hands over a fifty.

“Keep ’em coming,” he says, grinning lasciviously. Skye shudders, and moves away to serve her other patrons. Before too long, she hears his obnoxious voice calling for her again.

“Skye,” he calls. “C’mon, I’m out.” He whistles like he’s calling a dog, and it’s all she can do not to smash a glass in his face. She notes, with some relief, that the burly truckers are shooting him glares now and then. She signals to them that she can handle it, and goes to refill his whiskey glass. Quinn grabs her wrist as she pours, forcing more into the glass.

“Get your hand off me,” she says, venom in her tone.

“I don’t think I will,” he grins, deliberately holding onto her. She jerks her hand out of his grip, knocking the glass of whiskey onto her skirt.

“Aw, too bad,” he leers. “Better wipe that off. Do it slowly though. I want to enjoy it.”

“You need to leave,” she hisses through clenched teeth. His eyes are bright. He’s teasing her, and enjoying it.

“I don’t need to do anything,” he retorts. He’s like a fucking child, she thinks. Doing the opposite of what he’s told. “I’ll do whatever I want, and I want you to pour me another whiskey.”

She shudders again, and pours him a fresh glass. She tries to retreat, but he reaches over and snags a finger in the waistband of her skirt. Skye slaps his hand away, her cheeks blazing.

“Don’t touch me,” she snaps. The truckers are shifting. One of them leans down the bar.

“Buddy,” he says, his voice gruff. “Don’t touch her.”

“Oh please,” Quinn laughs, rolling his eyes at the man. “I could have your job in seconds, big guy, so don’t act all tough with me.”

“Leave it,” Skye advises the man. She’s not having anyone get fired on her behalf. The trucker retreats, but he’s glowering at Quinn, who is still chuckling. He downs his whiskey and slams the glass on the bar.

“Fill her up,” he grins.

“No,” she says calmly. “You’re cut off.”

“Excuse me?” he demands, leaning on the bar.

“Sir,” she says politely. “You’re intoxicated. I can’t, in all good conscience, serve you more alcohol. This establishment could lose its liquor licence.”

“Oh, you’ll lose your licence alright,” he growls. “Serve me my fucking drink.”

“Not going to happen, Quinn,” she tells him. She’s bluffing. He could shut Homeland down. But he’s not going to touch her again. She won’t give him the chance.

“Give me a damn drink,” he snarls, slamming his glass down on the bar again.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. She’s not backing down. He knows that, she can see it in his face.

“Come on, baby,” he says, changing his tone. He slides his hand over the bar. “You wouldn’t _believe_ the tips I give when I want something.”

His tone is greasy, whining, and she’s sure he thinks he’s being seductive. She looks at him, disgusted.

“Get out,” Skye says, clearly.

“What if I don’t want to?” he demands, trailing his gaze up and down her body. “What if I want something else?”

“Leave, Quinn,” she says, folding her arms. “Don’t make me get Ward to throw you out.”

“Oh yeah?” Quinn laughs. “Superman? Isn’t he too busy fucking the boss lady?”

She steps forward, ready to punch the bastard in the face, but he wags a finger.

“Assaulting patrons is _very_ bad for business,” he tells her. “You lot would have to do a _lot_ of favours to get out of that one. Then again, maybe you _should_ punch me. I wouldn’t mind a go around with the boss lady myself. Or maybe that cute little Brit who works out the back. She’d do nicely...”

“Get out,” she snarls, her teeth clenched. Quinn shakes his head. Skye moves down the bar to her truckers, and leans over.

“Terry,” she says, to the large guy in the middle. “I need you to get this creep out of here. He’s threatening me.”

Terry, one of her favourite regulars, stands up, walks over and scruffs Quinn.

“Time to go, buddy,” he says, placidly.

“Let go of me,” Quinn spits, twisting in the man’s grip. “You don’t have to do that bitch’s dirty work.”

“You can leave on your own, or I can throw you out of this bar,” Terry tells him simply. Quinn twists out of his grip and glares viciously at Skye.

“You just wait,” he growls. He staggers towards the door, stumbling several times, and finally leaves. When the door swings shut, Skye leans briefly against the bar, then pours a free round for her truckers. Terry is reluctant to leave when she rings for last call.

“I’m fine,” she assures him. “I’ve had worse.”

He smiles at her, and then she is alone in the bar, wiping down, stacking glasses and closing.

Dinner is a quiet affair. May is talking quietly to Phil, Jemma is talking quietly to Leo, and Ward and Skye are silent. Skye mentions Quinn, and Ward frowns. He knows he should have gone in to check on her. Yet another thing he should have done and didn’t. He’s stacking up quite a list.

Ward clears the plates, and Skye is the first to get up and grab her bag.

“I’m gonna get going,” she says. “Long night. I need to sleep.”

Ward manages a small smile, which she tiredly returns. He counts it as a small victory, and follows her through to the back with the plates. She disappears through the door, and he returns to the dining room to say goodnight to the others.

He opens his mouth, but before he can say a word, a muffled, terrified scream tears through the silence. Grant’s eyes widen in panic.

“Skye,” he breathes. Then they are running.


	10. Hope is All We Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye is badly hurt. The team wait in the hospital, hoping that she'll survive. Ward watches over his colleague, and gets some time to think.

The door bursts open as Ward slams his shoulder into it, and the first thing he registers is the horrific silence in the alley, like the world can’t quite believe what’s just happened. Then he hears a choked gasping sound, and in the dim lights he sees Skye staggering, and falling, and a figure standing over her.

Ian Quinn is swaying, the knife in his hand dripping something dark onto the concrete, and Skye seems to fold in half against the wall, sliding down to crumple onto the ground.

Ward roars, and launches himself at Quinn. The man is too surprised to react, and when Ward knocks him down, his head thumps against the ground and he is out cold. Jemma is already scrambling for their bartender.

“Skye?” Phil demands, kneeling on her other side as Jemma tries to see what has happened. “Skye, can you hear me?”

“She’s been stabbed,” Jemma says, her clear voice carrying a note of horror. This can’t be happening. Not here, not at Homeland. Not to their little family.

Grant feels something ice over in his chest, and he slams Quinn against the concrete again, just to be sure. May has her phone to her ear, and Ward dimly registers that she’s calling for emergency assistance as he stares down at Skye. There is blood on her paling skin, and a rip in her black top. Jemma is tearing the fabric to get a better look. Skye’s eyelids are fluttering. She looks bad. Really bad.

Phil moves aside when Grant kneels down. Fitz is on Skye’s other side, listening to Jemma’s every instruction. He has a dishtowel folded in one hand, which is being used as a compress on the wound, but the gash in Skye’s stomach is too long, too deep, there’s too much blood.

“Skye,” Grant says, his voice trembling in synchrony with his hands. “Skye, talk to me. Open your eyes. Come on, come on… please.”

Her eyes flutter open, and she looks at him. Her stare is vacant for a moment, then something flares and she gasps, her body contracting as she tries to protect herself from the pain.

“It hurts,” she chokes, her voice barely there. “Grant… Grant, help me, oh my God, help me… Grant _please-”_

“It’s okay,” he whispers, pushing her hair off her face. “Skye, it’s alright, you’re going to be okay, there’s an ambulance coming…”

She screams, and Jemma bursts into tears as she works. Fitz’s hand is on his friend’s back as she tries her hardest to stem the bleeding.

“I’m sorry,” the student says, every time Skye cries out.

“It _hurts,_ ” she sobs, grasping weakly at Grant’s hand. There is blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “Please- please make it stop, please, _please…_ I don’t wanna die, Grant, _please…”_

“You’re okay,” he says firmly, though he feels like he’s about to be sick. “Look at me, you’re going to be fine.”

He’s not sure of that, though. Skye is now sitting in a pool of her own blood. Her skin is too pale, and as her hand slides from his grip, Grant realises that they’re losing her.

“No,” he says, a little louder, shaking her shoulder. “No, no, come on, Skye, come back, don’t you go anywhere. Skye. _Skye.”_

Her eyes roll up in her head and she slumps against the wall. Behind them, Ward hears a groan. Quinn is trying to lift himself off the concrete.

“You did this to her,” Ward growls. He pushes himself of the ground and throws himself at Quinn, ignoring Phil’s shout, ignoring Jemma’s scream, ignoring everything as he lays into the man who tried to kill his Skye-

“ _Grant.”_

May’s hand is on his shoulder, pulling him away. He can hear sirens in the distance. Quinn is wiping his bleeding mouth with one hand, and Ward’s anger, Ward’s hatred is nowhere _near_ finished yet, he wants to kill the bastard, how _dare_ he go after Skye-

A police car screeches to a halt by the entrance to the alley, and in moments three uniforms have Quinn in handcuffs. One officer kneels by Skye and helps Jemma as an ambulance trundles in. The paramedics jump out, and Grant can only watch, ashen-faced and terrified, as they lift this girl he barely knows onto a stretcher.

“I can only take one of you,” the paramedic says, as they lift her into the vehicle. Grant steps forward, but Phil takes his shoulder.

“I’ll go,” he says, and the implication is very clear: Ward is a liability right now. He’s going to let his anger get the better of him. Grant nods, though his eyes never leave the girl on the stretcher, or the near-comatose would-be killer being bundled into a police car. Skye is dying. Quinn is in custody. Ward can do nothing with the searing panic underneath his skin except follow May in haste to her car as Phil gets into the ambulance and the doors close behind him.

The drive to the hospital is silent. May is behind the wheel, her grip white-knuckled. Ward sits in the passenger seat, rigid and scared. Jemma is sobbing softly in the back with Fitz’s arms around her.

“Faster,” Grant says, and if he expects a snappy reply, he gets nothing. May just accelerates.

When they arrive, their rush to get information is in vain. They find Phil holding a bloodstained dishtowel, looking completely shell-shocked. Melinda guides him off to a little nook on the other side of the waiting room and hugs him close for a while, whispering things that the others can’t hear and kissing his cheek from time to time. Ward finds seats in the waiting room and sits with Fitz and Simmons, who are still clutching each other. Ward wanders for a while, and finds a coffee machine. He slowly hands out drinks to everyone, making sure they’re all taken care of. Then he collapses into a chair, his face in his hands.

What if this is his fault? He was sharp with her earlier. Is he the reason she left early? What would have happened if anyone else had gone out first? Would they have found Quinn earlier? He can’t hear himself think for all the what-ifs spinning around his head, and he is terrified that she is going to die, and leave him with a whole slew of things left unsaid and undone.

Jemma comes to sit with him after a while. Her eyes are red. Fitz is asleep, sprawled in one of the chairs.

“He’s exhausted,” she murmurs, looking over at her friend. “He’s never had to deal with anything like this before, poor thing.”

“Neither have you,” Grant says, taking hold of her shoulder. Jemma simply crumples against him, crying softly. Grant hugs her, letting her lean on him. Everyone needs a shoulder. May and Phil are sitting together, hands on each other, never breaking contact. As tumultuous as their relationship is, Ward finds himself wishing that he could have that sort of a partner. Melinda always seems to know what Phil needs, and vice versa. It must be nice for him to have someone who understands like that.

“She’s going to be okay, right?” he asks quietly. Jemma wipes her eyes, pulling away from him.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “There was so much blood, Ward. We did what we could before the paramedics got there, but it was a _lot_ of blood. We’ll be lucky if there’s no damage to anything vital, but even then, it could be worse than it looks.”

Grant shook his head. “She’ll be okay. She has to be okay.”

“Your feelings aren’t enough to save her,” she snaps.

“They have to be,” he says, his voice quiet and scared. Jemma rests a hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry. You’re scared, I know. I am too. We all are. And we all care for Skye.”

She goes back to Fitz, shaking him awake, and Ward tries to relax, tries to convince himself that he really believes it will be okay. He can’t do it, and maybe it has something to do with the fact that her blood is still on his clothes.

An hour passes, and a nurse emerges. Ward sits up straight immediately, and reaches over to shake the two students who have fallen asleep on each other.

“She’s stable,” the woman says. Grant sags in relief. She’s not dead.

“Can we see her?” Phil asks hoarsely.

“Are you family?” the woman asks.

“We’re the only family she’s got,” Melinda says softly. The woman looks like she’s about to argue, but the look on Grant’s face seems to convince her that she has more important things to argue about today.

“Come with me,” she says, almost apologetically.

They follow her down the hall to intensive care. The nurse pulls back the screen of a little curtained off cubicle, and lets them gather around the bed inside.

Skye is lying there in a thicket of wires and tubes. There is a heavy bandage visible around her ribs, and her tanned skin is pale. She looks terrible, but she is breathing.

“The stab wound wasn’t as deep as the doctors thought,” the nurse says. “She lost a lot of blood, but the knife missed her vital organs. There was internal bleeding, and she needs to stay under observation in case there are complications. But if her condition improves, we’ll downgrade her from the ICU tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Phil says softly. Their eyes are all fixed on Skye, unbelieving, exhausted, scared.

Jemma is the first to move, shifting to stand beside her friend’s head. She reaches out and pushes the hair off Skye’s face, gently smoothing it down. There are tears in her eyes.

“She’s okay now, Jemma,” Fitz murmurs, sliding an arm around her waist. Jemma turns and buries her face in his shoulder, letting him hug her tightly. Phil’s arm is around May’s shoulders. Only Ward is left standing alone, a pillar amongst the others, rigidly staring at Skye’s still form.

They stand for a while, not really sure of what to do. In their rush to get here, to find out whether or not their friend was going to live, they didn’t think that the waiting would continue.

Phil’s phone rings, and he steps away from the cubicle to answer it. When he returns, he looks resigned, and exhausted.

“That was Vicki, from the deli across the road,” he murmurs. “We left the restaurant unlocked with the lights on. I have to go back and close down.”

Melinda glances at Skye, still unconscious. “I’ll come with you.”

“It’s fine,” Phil tries to protest, but she shakes her head. No one wants to be alone right now.

“Call us when she wakes up, okay?” she tells Ward.

Before they go, Phil fishes in his wallet and presses a couple of notes into Jemma’s hand.

“For a cab back to the dorms,” he says, holding up a hand to stem her objection. “You two need to be safe tonight, okay? Take a cab, call me when you get there.”

Jemma nods quietly, and glances at Fitz. It’s almost two in the morning now, and they are exhausted.

Ward can tell that Jemma doesn’t want to leave. When Melinda and Phil reluctantly depart, Fitz looks like he’s yearning for a bed to sleep in. He’s nodding off on his feet.

“You two need to go home,” he says, gently. Jemma shakes her head.

“Jemma,” Ward murmurs. “You’re exhausted. So is Fitz. You need to sleep.”

Her face crumples, but Fitz is beside her when she needs someone to lean on.

“Okay,” she mumbles eventually. “But you call me the second she’s awake, alright? I don’t care if you wake me up. I just want to know. Promise me.”

“I promise,” he says. The two students leave, and Ward is left sitting in the single chair beside Skye’s bed, contemplating how the hell he got here. Just a month ago, he didn’t know her, didn’t care about her, and now _this._ It’s terrifying, the ache in his chest as he watches her lying there, vulnerable and hurt. That anger is still in his chest. Now, at her weakest, Skye is dangerous. He is attached, there is no denying it now. He can only hope that this tempest doesn’t destroy him. Hope. Hope is all he has.

He doesn’t notice himself nodding off, and before long his chin is on his chest, and he is slumped down in his chair.

He wakes to a weird tugging sensation in his fingers. Groaning at the twinges in his neck and back, he sits up and opens his eyes. He looks down at his hand, and finds another hand tugging weakly at his fingers. His eyes widen, and he looks up.

Skye is looking back at him, blinking slowly. He sits bolt upright. Her look is confused, and she looks around, wincing when she turns her head.

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice husky from exhaustion. “It’s okay, Skye, you’re safe.”

Her eyes widen, and she tenses. He knows what she’s afraid of, and he shakes his head, laying a hand over her own.

“He’s been arrested,” he murmurs soothingly. “It’s okay. He’s gone. You don’t have to worry.”

She exhales, and makes a small whimpering noise.

“Hurts,” she croaks, looking down at the bandages just visible in the split of her hospital gown.

“I know,” he murmurs. “You were pretty badly hurt. It’s going to take a while to heal.”

“Is… everyone here?” she manages. “What… what time is it?”

Ward checks the clock. “It’s six in the morning. Everyone was here when you were brought in, and for a while after that, but they had to go.”

“You stayed,” she says softly.

“I couldn’t leave you here on your own,” he retorts gruffly. She smiles, and it’s almost teasing.

“Softie,” she murmurs.

“Shut up,” he chuckles, and squeezes her hand. Maybe, just maybe, Skye might be okay.


	11. All soft around the edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma wakes up very much not alone, as do Phil and Melinda. Ward looks after Skye, who is more concerned with looking after him. Skye tries her hardest to bring her two little dish washers together at last.

Jemma’s phone rings at half past six. She blinks, and reaches for it, before realising that she is stuck.

She vaguely remembers getting out of the cab at the dorms and calling Phil. She knows Fitz walked her up to her room, and just barely recalls asking him to sit with her for a while. What she doesn’t remember is how Fitz ended up in her bed, his arms wrapped comfortably around her. She blinks at the phone, still buzzing on her bedside table, and reaches over Fitz, pushing him slightly across the bed. He grumbles, and wakes up as she answers the call.

“Yes?” she mumbles. She’s only had about four hours of sleep.

“Simmons?”

She sits bolt upright, and Fitz is rolled onto his side with a muffled noise of complaint before he props himself up, staring blearily at her.

“Ward?” she demands, rubbing her eyes. “Is Skye okay? Is she awake? Is she-”

“She’s awake,” Ward says. He sounds even more exhausted than she feels. “She’s not great. But she’s alive, and she’s talking.”

Fitz nudges Jemma. “What’s he saying?”

“Is that Fitz?” Ward demands. Jemma can almost hear his puzzled frown. “It’s half six in the morning, what’s Fitz doing in your-”

“Thanks for calling, Ward,” she blurts, and hangs up, blushing.

“Jemma?”

It’s Fitz again. Jemma looks down at him, all mussed curls and sleepy eyes. His tie is gone, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the neck.

“Skye’s going to be okay,” she says, relief in her tone. She looks at him, biting the inside of her cheek, her face still flushed. “Thanks for keeping me company,” she says brusquely. “You’d better get back to your room. Don’t you have classes at nine?”

He looks like a chastised puppy. If he had a tail, it would be between his legs as he slides out of her bed.

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” he murmurs. “If Phil decides to open.”

“See you tonight,” Jemma replies. He slips out of her room and she curls up, setting her alarm for eight thirty. She’ll be a little late, but she deserves it after the night she’s had.

-

Across town, Melinda is already up and making coffee. The night before, after they closed the restaurant, she opted to stay with him. No one wanted to be alone after what happened with Skye, and Melinda knows that Phil was more shaken up about it than he expected to be. So she stayed, against her better judgement, because Phil wasn’t the only one who needed company.

She hears his phone ring from the next room, and smiles wearily at the sound of him stumbling out of bed to get it off the dresser.

“Hello?” he croaks. He is silent for a few moments. “Really? Fantastic. Okay. Thanks, Grant. No, I’m not sure yet, but I’ll call you. Are you- okay. I’ll let you know. Bye.”

He shambles into the room, and Melinda pushes a mug of coffee into his hands before he can blink.

“Skye’s okay,” he says. “She’s not doing much better yet, but she’s not going to die, as far as they can tell.”

“Ward’s still there?” Melinda murmurs.

“Yeah,” Phil sighs. “I don’t think he’s going to leave. We’ll have a hard time getting him on shift tonight.”

“Take the night off,” Melinda suggests. “Without a bartender or our waiter…”

“We’re not taking the night off,” he mutters, his voice gruff. Melinda puts a hand on his arm, but he shakes his head. “We’ve had worse.”

“Have we?” she asks gently. He blinks, and sips his coffee to avoid answering the question.

“At least take the morning off,” she urges, nudging him back towards the bedroom. “We don’t need to go in until midday. Sleep some more, we both need it.”

He nods, hands wrapped around his coffee. He is exhausted, she can always tell. Phil doesn’t hide it well.

“I’m going to take off,” she says. He reaches out, catching her arm.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Stay here a while.”

“This isn’t the time for a hookup,” Melinda yawns.

“Not for sex,” he sighs, playing with her sleeve. “Just… stay.”

“Phil,” she murmurs, squeezing his arm. “That’s not a good idea.”

“I know,” he says, obstinate. “I don’t care. I don’t want you to go.”

She rolls her eyes, and lets him slide an arm around her waist. “We never should have got married,” she murmurs, as he leads her into the bedroom. “We work much better this way.”

-

Skye is sleeping when Ward gets back from the cafeteria. His back is killing him from almost twelve hours of sleeping on and off in a chair and pacing agitatedly, but at least there is a little colour in Skye’s cheeks, and she actually _looks_ like she’s sleeping, instead of dying.

He sits, setting his coffee – which is absolutely vile – on the little table. He has tried to occupy himself with books in the last few hours, anything to keep himself awake, but to no avail. His attention always comes back to Skye, and the bandages around her torso.

Grant can’t quite believe the anger that was stirred up when he saw Skye bleeding out in the alley behind Homeland. He doesn’t know where that rage came from, the rage that he was channelling when he was beating Quinn into the ground, but it scares him knowing that he has that in him now. Every so often, especially now that he’s so sleep-deprived, he feels it stir again. It’s half of the reason he’s running on empty – he has to protect her. He has to stay vigilant, or someone will come and hurt her again.

Grant knows he’s being crazy, mostly because he hasn’t slept in roughly forty hours, but it doesn’t matter. When he sits with Skye, and surreptitiously takes her hand, he goes all soft around the edges, and sometimes he even smiles.

He has dozed off in his chair again when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He jerks, sitting up with an inelegant grunt, to find Jemma standing by his chair.

“Hey,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I thought you had classes today.”

“I blew one off to come down here,” she shrugs. “Some things are more important.”

“Did you hit your head?” he asks, feigning worry. She laughs quietly, then puts a bag on the floor by his chair.

“I brought some pyjamas for Skye, in case she wakes up and wants to change. There are also some clothes in there for you, some food… I also brought Skye’s phone. I didn’t realise I had it until I found it in my pocket this morning. I must have picked it up somewhere back in the alley.”

“Thanks, Jemma,” he says, quietly surprised at this genuinely friendly gesture. He’s never been unpleasant to her, but she’s still smiling at him like he’s her friend, and Grant isn’t used to that at all.

“I have to get going,” she says. “One class is all I’m willing to miss.” She lingers, though, her hand on her friend’s leg. She doesn’t want to leave Skye, Grant can see.

“Look after her,” the student says, finally, turning to Grant. He nods seriously, and she sniffs, blinking a few times before she walks out again. Grant sifts through the clothes – she’s clearly gone out and bought new clothes somewhere, which Grant will have to thank her for later. There is a shirt in his size, and she’s been practical enough to pack socks and underwear. Glancing at Skye, Grant heaves himself out of his chair and goes to the bathroom to change and wash his face. When he returns, he sits by her and takes up his book again, trying to distract himself.

“Ward?”

He has nodded off again, his chin on his chest. Fuck, he’s exhausted.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice cracked with weariness. He leans over, smiling gently. “You feeling okay?”

“Sore,” she mumbles, blinking slowly. “I feel weird.”

“Morphine,” he explains, letting his hand drift down over hers. He’s just comforting her. That’s all.

She seems to be waking up a little, better than the last few times. She’s more aware, and he hasn’t had to explain why she’s in the hospital again, which is a relief.

“Have you been here all night?” she murmurs. Her fingers twitch against his.

“Since the last time you asked me,” he jokes weakly. She manages a glare in response, which should be chastising, but is more relieving than anything else. She looks like herself.

“Grant,” she says, as firmly as she can. “You have to go home. Get some rest.”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she murmurs. “Don’t argue.”

He slumps in his chair. “I… I was scared. I don’t know, I just… I want to stay here. Look out for you.”

“Quinn’s with the police,” she points out, slowly grasping the bed controls and pressing the up button, easing herself into a half-sitting position. “And I’m safe here. I feel better. So you can go get some sleep, okay?”

She’s not winning any ground, and she knows it. Grant purses his lips unhappily.

“You can’t feel that much better,” he says. “It’s only been twelve hours.”

“I feel better than when there was a knife in my stomach,” she shrugs. The movement makes her wince, and Grant automatically rises, placing a hand on her shoulder to ease her. She raises an eyebrow and he flushes.

“You look exhausted,” she murmurs. He stands over her, adjusting her blankets like that’s what he jumped up for. “Grant…” One of her hands, trailing a couple of wires, comes up to brush his jaw, and he jumps.

“Please go home,” she murmurs. “Please get some sleep. Phil must be opening the restaurant tonight, you’ll need some sleep in a real bed before your shift.”

“I’m not working,” he retorts stubbornly. “I’m coming straight back here.”

“You have to work,” she says gently. “Phil can’t run the restaurant without you.”

He is defeated, but he’s still trying on the puppy eyes. Skye pushes him, as best she can whilst still ludicrously weak from pain and the drugs pumping through her veins.

“Come back after your shift,” she says softly. “But bring a cushion or something, okay?”

He laughs, and straightens up, only to bend down and press a kiss to the top of her head. He is gone before she even has time to process what has just happened, by which point she is convinced it was just a morphine-induced hallucination. Because Grant can’t have kissed her, even just on the head. That would be a mark of affection, and he can’t feel _that_ towards her. Surely. That isn’t allowed.

Skye leans back on her bed, and closes her eyes.

-

When dinner service starts, Jemma notes that everyone looks tired and worried. She can’t blame them. Even though they know that Skye’s going to live, it’s still unpleasant having their friend in a bad way in the hospital and not being able to be there with her. Phil almost didn’t open for business tonight, but Skye seems to have sent him a rather strongly-worded text. So here they are, business as usual.

Jemma’s phone buzzes in her pocket as she’s stacking dishes by the sink.

 

**FROM: Skye [6:24PM]: So I hear you spent the night with Fitz???**

Jemma rolls her eyes. Ward. Damn traitor.

 

**TO: Skye [6:25PM]: It wasn’t like that. He just kept me company.**

**FROM: Skye [6:25PM]: Suuuure it wasn’t. So you two have practically slept together, are you admitting you’re a couple yet?**

**TO: Skye [6:26PM]: Skye! We are not a couple! How many times to I have to tell you?**

Jemma sits on the stairs with a huff. She’s finished for the time being, although Ward will no doubt bring them more dishes. Berta’s been playing up as well, so it’s looking to be a long night.

 

**FROM: Skye [6:27PM]: Oh come on, Jemma, you guys are totally in love.**

**TO: Skye [6:28PM]: We are NOT in love.**

**FROM: Skye [6:29PM]: Yes you are. You just don’t want to admit it yet.**

**TO: Skye [6:30PM]: He’s not interested, Skye.**

**FROM: Skye [6:31PM]: Are you BLIND? He just spent the night with you to ‘keep you company’.**

**TO: Skye [6:32PM]: He’s just my friend, Skye. Even if I feel that way, I can’t ruin what we have.**

**FROM: Skye [6:33PM]: Awww you’re so adorable. Sure you can ruin what you have. That’s the fun part. Come on, you two would be perfect together.**

**TO: Skye [6:35PM]: I like you better unconscious.**

**FROM: Skye [6:36PM]: Ouch, Jem. I’m just trying to make you see how good you two would be together.**

**TO: Skye [6:37PM]: I KNOW we would be. But he won’t be interested!**

**FROM: Skye [6:38PM]: Have faith, Jemma. If you flirt with him even a little bit, he’ll be yours. His head might explode, but it’ll be worth it.**

**TO: Skye [6:40PM]: You’re a terrible influence.**

**FROM: Skye [6:41PM]: Happy hunting :)**

Jemma tucks her phone back into her pocket, smiling ruefully. When Fitz emerges with a new stack of plates, she helps him load them into Berta, and if her hands brush against his now and then, or she smiles a little longer and more shyly than usual, it’s definitely not Skye’s influence. And the warmth she feels when she spots the flush on the back of his neck has _nothing_ to do with the fact that Fitz always blushes like that when he talks to pretty girls. Jemma works through the rest of the night smiling to herself, and dutifully ignoring Skye’s texted requests for photographic evidence of the two of them “finally hooking up”, as she so eloquently puts it.


	12. Somewhere Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye is restless. Grant does something kind, and probably needs to start questioning his own actions once in a while.

“Sorry, sweetheart, it’s against the rules.”

“Come _on,_ I’ve been in here for _four days.”_

Ward pokes his head through the door, catching sight of an irritated-looking nurse and Skye, who seems ready to wriggle out of her bed and run.

“Hey,” he says, announcing himself. Skye immediately turns on him with a glare, and he instinctively checks himself to see if he’s done anything wrong.

“Tell her I’m fine to leave,” she says, balling her fists in the blankets.

“I told you,” the nurse says, a little curtly, “We can’t let you go if you don’t have a family member or someone else who can look after you for a few days.”

“I’ll be _fine,_ ” Skye groans. “My van is just as much a home as anyone else’s place, and I can take care of myself-”

“Sorry,” the nurse says again, and leaves. Skye flops back onto her pillows with a slight wince. She has been getting progressively crabbier since they started weaning her off the stronger painkillers.

“Won’t let you go home, hey?” Ward asks, sitting beside her.

“It’s fucking ridiculous,” Skye says, huffing. “I’m _fine,_ I just feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Y’know, with a knife. I just want to get _out_ of here, but because I don’t have a family or an actual house that doesn’t have wheels, they won’t discharge me. It’s bullshit.”

“They’re just trying to look out for you,” Grant tries to reason.

“Don’t you dare take their side,” Skye snaps. He purses his lips, and she softens slightly. “Sorry. I just hate being cooped up like this.”

“I know,” he sighs, looking around. The room _is_ dreary, despite the flowers Jemma keeps bringing in, and the few cards scattered around the place. Their little Homeland family has really come through for Skye, and it makes Ward quite proud.

“You want some water?” he asks, standing again. “Food? Anything?”

“Water would be great,” she sighs. He smiles, and leaves the room.

Instead of the vending machine down the hall, Ward makes for reception. He waits behind a doddering old guy who can’t quite remember where he put his forms, and after almost ten minutes, he reaches the counter.

“I wanted to ask about getting a patient discharged,” he says.

“Name?” the lady behind the desk asks.

“Skye.”

“Last name?”

“She doesn’t have a last name,” Ward says, drumming the counter lightly with his fingers.

“Says here she doesn’t have a family either,” the lady reads off the screen, glancing up at him. “What’s your relation to the patient?”

“Colleague,” he says, then considers it a little further. “Friend. She’s my friend.”

“You realise that if you accept responsibility, you’ll have to stay with her for the next few days to ensure she’s alright?”

“I do.”

“You’ll have to sign forms. We’ll be ringing to check up on her.”

“Alright,” Ward says, a little irritated by the suspicion. She slides the forms over and he reads through them and signs, giving them his address and contact details. He still doesn’t know whether or not this is a good idea, but he does know that Skye won’t be able to stay in that bed for very much longer without trying to kill someone.

When he returns with a bottle of water, Skye is flicking the rail on her bed. She looks up, and smiles at him.

“That took forever,” she snaps, accepting the bottle and twisting it open. “You know there’s a vending machine down the hall, right?”

“I went to reception,” he shrugs, settling back into the chair.

She frowns. “What did you go there for?”

“To get you discharged.”

Skye’s entire face lights up. “Seriously? Ward, seriously, did you get me discharged? Oh thank God, thank you so much, I- wait, how did you get past the stupid rules?”

“Didn’t,” he shrugs. “So you’re going to have to bunk at my place for a couple of nights to keep them happy. But I figure it’s better than staying here for four more days, right?”

She is quiet for a moment, but then a rueful grin appears, and he relaxes.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she huffs, reaching out to punch him gently in the arm. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he says, waving her protest off. “I have a big enough apartment for both of us, and I don’t mind sleeping on the couch for a couple of days. It’s a nice couch.”

“Thank you so much, Grant,” she murmurs, her smile still wide.

-

Despite Skye’s protests, she has to obey yet another rule of the hospital and is rolled out in a wheelchair. Grant helps her take her first steps in almost a week, only as far as a taxi door, where he helps her inside. He gets in with her, and gives the driver directions to his place. The ride isn’t long, and soon he is helping her out, up the stairs of his building and into the elevator.

It is only when he helps her through the door of his apartment that he realises how big a step this is in their friendship. He hasn’t brought anyone from Homeland back to his place before.

Skye seems more than happy to explore, but after a few minutes she is clearly tiring.

“Come on,” Ward says, catching her gently around the shoulders. “I’ll show you my room.”

“Buy me a drink first,” she retorts, and he just lets it slide off his back with a chuckle.

“I really can sleep on the couch,” she protests, as he opens the door for her.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says, shaking his head. “And I’ve heard Fitz singing ABBA when he thinks no one’s listening.”

Her laugh is a wonderful thing to hear. Grant helps her inside and sets her down on the edge of his bed. “Have a nap, I’ll be around. There’s an electric blanket if you need it, I’ll get you some water, just yell if you want anything else, okay?”

“Thanks,” she yawns, smiling up at him. He just smiles back, ignoring the flutter in his stomach as she pulls back the covers of his bed – _his_ bed – and slides under them, settling onto his pillows. He goes to his little kitchen, and fills up a bottle of water for her. By the time he gets back with it, she is already asleep.

“Sleep well,” he murmurs, reaching out to brush her hair off her face as he sets the water down. He leaves the room, only looking back briefly as he shuts the door behind him.

Out in the kitchen, he pulls out his phone, and calls Phil.

“How’s she doing?” his boss asks, as soon as he picks up the phone.

“She’s fine,” Ward answers. “She really didn’t want to stay at the hospital, so I got her discharged. She’s staying with me.”

There is a silence on the line, before Phil sighs.

“Are you absolutely sure you know what you’re doing?”

“No,” Ward sighs. “I’m not. But I couldn’t leave her there. You should have seen her, she was ready to strangle one of the nurses.”

Phil sighs again, and Ward bites the inside of his cheek.

“I can’t give you any time off-”

“I’m not asking,” he interrupts. “I just thought you’d want to know she was somewhere safe.”

“Thanks, Ward,” Phil says, eventually. “I’ll let the others know, and I’ll see you tonight. Don’t let Skye come in to work, okay?”

“Got it.”

The line goes dead, and Ward relaxes slightly. It is coming up on midday now, and though he doesn’t know if Skye will be hungry or not when she wakes up, he decides to make some lunch.

The kitchen isn’t very well stocked, as is the norm at his place, but he manages to rustle up enough for a simple soup. There is some bread and butter, and by the time Skye emerges from the bedroom, tousled and sleepy, and wrapped in a blanket, Ward is just setting two steaming bowls of soup onto the table along with some tea, and hot buttered toast.

“You’re the best,” she groans, as she sinks into a seat at his table. Ward takes the other one. It’s strange, having someone in his apartment. It’s a solitary place for him, somewhere he can come to get away from people he doesn’t want to talk to or be around. Not somewhere he brings people, except for very occasionally someone who will spend the night and be gone before the sun rises. But that hasn’t happened much in recent times. In fact, not since he met Skye. Ward isn’t really sure if he knows what that means in terms of his feelings, so he shoves it down and ignores it instead of dealing with his emotions.

Skye eats slowly, and gets through three quarters of the bowl before she pushes it away. She’s even eaten most of her toast, which is a step up from refusing hospital sandwiches over and over. Grant feels a little worry slide off his shoulders as he takes their plates to the sink. He switches on the radio, and quickly finds something gentle and easy to listen to.

When he comes back, Skye is gazing out the window by the table. There isn’t much of a view, just to the building across the road and down onto the street. If he stretches to one side at night, he can see the lit line of the street stretching away from him towards the inner city. Sometimes he can see the spotlights of the fancy clubs trailing their way across the clouds. Skye seems happy just to watch the view. It’s getting on towards the end of the day, which of course means the start of Grant’s shift. He’ll be covering the bar again, as well as the dining room. Just like the old days. Not that he minds the work, but he misses Skye’s presence at Homeland. All of them do.

“Thinking of anything in particular?” he asks, sitting opposite her.

“Moving on,” she murmurs. His stomach drops, and he tries not to let his dismay show in his face. She turns to him, and clearly he hasn’t been very successful.

“Not _now,”_ she assures him.

“But soon?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “I’ve never stayed in one place this long before. Maybe that’s worth holding on to. Never really had friends, either.”

“You do now.” It’s not much, but he hopes the tenuous links are enough for her not to heal, hop in her van and disappear. “And a job.”

“I’ve had jobs before.”

What is bringing this on? She doesn’t seem sad, just… pensive. Like she’s contemplating things.

“Are you going to leave?” he asks, folding his hands on the table.

“I don’t know.” She turns her head and regards him. He watches her curls move over her shoulder. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve got a good thing going here,” he says, trying to keep it vague. “You have friends, people who care about you, you have a job you’re good at with customers who like you. You’re a good fit. I don’t know why you’d leave.”

“I always leave.”

“Maybe that’s not the right thing for you anymore.”

The corners of her mouth twist into a faint smile. Grant is still trying to convince himself that he’s not scared of Skye leaving. He’s also trying not to think of it as her leaving _him._

“Maybe not,” she sighs. “Do you want me to stay?”

He nods. “We all like you, Skye, I know we didn’t exactly get off to the best start, but no one at the restaurant would be happy to see you go-”

“Not _you_ collective, _you,_ ” she says, almost exasperated. Grant pauses. What is he supposed to tell her now?

“Yes,” he says, measuredly. “I want you to stay.”

Skye seems to consider that for a moment, and turns to look out the window again.

“Do you really think I’m a good fit?”

He nods again. “I really do. Even Melinda likes you, and she doesn’t like anyone.”

“Even you?”

He takes the barb. He deserves that.

“Even me.”

She is silent, watching the road. Grant observes the silence for a few moments, just watching her. She looks like a damn angel in this light. Any light. He tries to push the thought away, but it keeps bobbing back up to the surface.

“I have to get to work,” he says, sighing. “Technically I’m not supposed to leave you on your own, so I’ll have my phone in my pocket. You ring me if you need anything, okay? And I mean anything.”

Her smile is sleepy but somehow radiant, and he has to pause a moment to catch his breath.

“For someone whose resting face could give kids nightmares, you mother too much,” she says, quirking an eyebrow at him. He just laughs, shaking his head, and enjoys the tiny grin on her lips.

“I mean it,” he says, trying to make his tone serious. “Even if you need food, or something from the shops, anything that involves any strenuous movement. Skye. Look at me.” She does, like a guilty child. “Do. Not. Hurt. Yourself.”

“Yes, _Sir,_ ” she grumbles.

“Seriously,” he murmurs, a little softer. “I don’t want to see you in pain again, okay?”

She nods, finally quiet, and he picks up his keys and leaves before he has to think about why he doesn’t want to go.


	13. Someone to Distract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant tries to distract himself. Jemma tips off Skye. Skye needs Grant's help.

His shift is slow, and definitely not because he’s thinking about the woman in his apartment. Grant has to shake himself several times through the dinner service to get his mind off Skye, especially now that she’s in his _home,_ she’s sleeping in his _bed_ … He doesn’t know what to think. So when his customers in the dining room are finished for the night, he takes to the bar, and if he downs a few shots before he serves, no one is complaining.

Grant has been trying Skye’s approach to serving. People seem to be responding to it. Who knew a smile and friendly words would get him so far? He feels like he’s actually made friends for the first time in his life. Well, not the _very_ first time.

As he leans behind the bar, checking on his patrons, he spots someone waving him over. She’s beautiful, that’s perfect. Someone to distract him.

“Gin and tonic,” she says, as soon as he arrives. No please, no thank you, no smile. He keeps his smile to himself and serves it up. She opens her purse but he waves her off.

“On me,” he smiles. He gets a cool, calculating look in reply, and kind of likes it.

“That’s sweet,” she says, and sips the drink.

“I’m Grant,” he offers, grabbing a few glasses to polish so he’s not standing there with nothing to do. She really is stunning, with long auburn hair, green eyes, red lips and a little green dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. And she’s still watching him with that gaze that tells him she could take him apart with one hand while she finished her drink, and to be honest he’s kind of into it.

“Lorelei,” she says, after a long pause.

“That’s a pretty name,” he says, folding his arms as he leans against the back counter. “Where’s that accent from?”

She gives the slightest of smiles. “Europe.”

“You wanna elaborate on that?”

Another cool stare. “No.”

“Well,” he says, “Enjoy the drink, Lorelei.”

She gives a tiny smirk, and Grant moves down the bar to serve some other customers. He thinks about Skye, and then resolutely _doesn’t_ think about Skye when he turns around to look at Lorelei once more. Here is someone he doesn’t work with, whose past he knows nothing about, who doesn’t confuse him just by smiling. She has this magnetic pull about her, and Grant isn’t sure whether it’s her own allure or just the fact that she’s any woman but Skye.

No. He can’t think about Skye. That’s all too complicated, and he has to get it out of his head that anything could ever happen. Skye deserves better than him. This woman, though, doesn’t need to know anything about him. He’s sure she doesn’t want to know. He can see that there is _something_ she wants - he’s not entirely stupid. So he takes her another drink.

“Does your boss mind you pouring free drinks for women?” she asks, curling her slender fingers around the glass. Her nails are painted red. Grant gives a little smile.

“I don’t pour free drinks for women.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “I see. So you were envisioning some sort of business arrangement here.”

He nods. “Business arrangement. Yeah, something like that.”

“I’m not a whore, darling.”

Grant almost chokes. “I didn’t… I know that.”

She gives a wide smile, and her red lips make her teeth look startlingly white. “Look at you. Such a gentleman.”

He gazes at her for a moment, then leaves her end of the bar. He has to think about things. There’s probably a rule about customers, but then again, it wouldn’t be the first time some woman has dragged him out of Homeland by his collar. Maybe he has a type. As he wipes down some glasses, he thinks of Skye, waiting for him in his apartment. He can’t leave her alone, he has to look after her. He has to make sure that she has everything she needs, because when she’s happy she’s the most beautiful person he’s ever- _no._ He _can’t_ do this anymore, he has to get her out of his system. He turns and marches down the bar towards Lorelei, who looks faintly amused, but triumphant.

“I’ll be waiting,” she says, before he can even open his mouth. She reaches across the bar and puts a finger to his lips to still his questions, and he shivers. Her eyes are deep, and dangerous, and this is _exactly_ what he needs. Isn’t it?

He goes back to work, trying to convince himself he’s not conflicted here.

-

Skye’s phone buzzes while she’s trying to figure out Ward’s TV. It’s kind of old, and she’s busy trying to override some of the settings, but gives up when she hears the sound of a message coming in. She flops back on the couch and grabs her phone.

 

**FROM: Jemma [11:49PM]: Are you staying at Ward’s?**

She frowns. Has she forgotten to tell Jemma where she is? She always worries, that girl, and it makes Skye feel a little guilty.

 

**TO: Jemma [11:49PM]: Yeah, did I not tell you? I’m fine.**

**FROM: Jemma [11:50PM]: No, you did, it’s just that Ward just left with some woman.**

That catches Skye. A woman? Surely not. Ward has been so lovely to her over the last few days, and combined with the moment they shared a couple of weeks ago in the bar… has she been completely off track about Grant’s feelings?

 

**TO: Jemma [11:51PM]: Seriously? Did he say where he was going?**

**FROM: Jemma [11:51PM]: No, but she got on his bike.**

She realises she is holding her phone far too tight. She tries to relax, but as she looks around the empty apartment, she feels small, and stupid. Why is she even here?

 

**TO: Jemma [11:52PM]: Weird. Do you think he was okay?**

**FROM: Jemma [11:52PM]: I don’t know, he looked kind of determined. And she looked like a piece of work.**

**TO: Jemma [11:52PM]: Maneater?**

**FROM: Jemma [11:53PM]: Big time. But I think he’ll be okay. Will you?**

Skye huffs, but a little part of her is pleased that Jemma is worried about her. She has really come to love her little family at Homeland, and the two students manning the ancient dishwasher are no exception.

 

**TO: Jemma [11:54PM]: I’m a big girl. I’ll handle it. Thanks, Jem.**

**FROM: Jemma [11:54PM]: Rest up, I’ll come visit you soon.**

Skye stares at her phone for a long minute, contemplating her options. She doesn’t really _need_ to call Grant. He’s fine, he can handle himself, and yet… this is so unexpected, him taking off with some girl from the restaurant. Probably from the bar, given the time of night. She moves around the apartment for a while, turning on the heating and the lights, and when she gets back to the couch, she knows she has to find out what’s going on.

He doesn’t pick up his phone the first time she calls him, so she calls again. She hears a few moments of fumbling before Grant answers.

“What?” he demands. Skye frowns, taken aback. She can hear some sort of pinging noise in the background.

“I… Jemma told me you left with someone. I wanted to check if you were coming back tonight.”

It’s a bit of a lame excuse, and she expects a soft chuckle from Ward. Instead, she hears someone else’s voice in the background.

“Who is it?” a female voice snaps.

“It’s a friend,” he says, sounding exasperated.

“Hang up,” the woman demands.

There is a moment of silence, in which Skye can hear the distinct sound of slot machines, and then the line goes dead. She is thoroughly confused by the exchange. Grant sounds like just _talking_ to Skye is a hardship, and the woman in the background sounds domineering and a little scary. Skye dials again, and gets no answer. Once more, and someone picks up.

“Look, I’m just worried about you,” she begins. “You said to call if I needed anything-”

“He’s busy,” a smooth voice cuts her off. “Don’t call him again.”

She hangs up, and Skye resists the urge to fling the phone against a wall. She begins to think. Ward can’t have gone far between leaving the restaurant and arriving at what she assumes is a hotel. There are slot machines, and she heard a piano, so it has to be in the upmarket district. She can work with that. She hauls herself off the couch, grabs one of Ward’s light jackets, and makes for the door.

-

Ward is happy. That’s what he has been trying to convince himself since he met Lorelei outside Homeland and she jumped on the back of his bike. This is good. This is what he wants. Sort of. _No,_ not sort of, this _is_ what he wants. Period.

She is dragging him by his collar out of the elevator when he remembers what he said to Skye earlier. _Call me if you need anything._ What if she needs his help? What if she’s hurt herself?

He knows he should have taken her call. But she’s confusing him so much right now, and he needs to clear his head. Lorelei is promising to do that, so he ignores his phone in his pocket and lets her drag him into the room she’s paid for.

Her kisses are hard, and demanding, and her teeth are everywhere. He likes it, relishes the dull pain as she tugs on his lower lip with her teeth. Her hands are snaking around his waist, sliding down under his waistband- but is Skye okay all alone in his apartment? _Fuck,_ that’s not what he should be thinking about right now. Lorelei pulls him back so he’s pushing her against the wall, and he tries his hardest to lose himself in her. Her perfume washes over him, and he tries not to think about Skye. Her lips touch his neck and he tries not to think about Skye. Her hand slides down his pants and he tries – and fails – not to think about Skye. As she drags him to the bed, he pulls back, shaking his head.

“No,” he says. She’s propped on her elbows, her clothes half off, her lips swollen and her hair tousled. She’s a vision, she’s _perfect,_ and Grant doesn’t want her.

“No?” she asks, glaring up at him.

“I… I can’t,” he mumbles, staggering back. She’s off the bed in a heartbeat, hand between his legs, and it feels _good,_ but he _can’t-_

“Are you sure?” she purrs. “Because it really feels like you can.”

“Don’t,” he protests. “I don’t… I don’t want this.”

“I think you do,” she murmurs, stretching up to drag her lips along his neck. He shudders, and then pushes her off him. She stumbles back to the bed and he is out of there, fleeing the room before she can give chase. He takes a moment in the elevator to compose himself, smooth his hair down and breathe deeply. He has to go home. He has to make sure Skye’s okay. He _cares_ about her, damn it all, he does, and he can’t stop himself from feeling what he feels.

His phone rings, and he answers it immediately.

“Skye?” he asks.

“I need help,” she says, her voice small. His stomach drops.

“I’m on my way home,” he says, his voice low and guilty. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there in about fifteen.”

“I’m not at the apartment.”

His heart is in his mouth now. “Where are you?”

“I’m on the hotel strip uptown,” she says, and she sounds worried. “I came looking for you, but I didn’t know where you were, and now I’m bleeding and I’m sitting on a curb somewhere, and _please_ come get me.”

He stays on the line as he almost runs out of the hotel lobby, out onto the strip she’s talking about.

“You shouldn’t have left the apartment,” he says, looking around. “Can you see anything around you?”

“I was trying to help you,” she retorts. “I can see a big neon windmill. It’s over the road from where I am.”

He knows the spot, and jogs along the strip. Grant finds Skye sitting on the curb, wearing one of his jackets and curled over as if protecting her torso. He kneels down in front of her, and she looks pale.

“Hey,” he says gently. “You okay? Let me have a look.”

He pulls the jacket aside and there is blood on her shirt. Her stitches have pulled, most likely. Nothing she’ll have to go back to hospital for, but not _good_ in any case.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, cupping her cheek and checking that she’s not about to pass out. “Lean on me, okay? I’ll get us a cab.”

He hails one, and soon they’re on their way back to his apartment. She leans against him, which in itself is worrying.

“She sounded like a total bitch,” Skye slurs, as he helps her out of the cab and up the stairs to the elevator.

“She probably was,” he sighs. He gets her into his apartment, which, for once, is lit and warm, and he sits her down on the couch, sliding his jacket off her shoulders. He grabs a first aid kit, and rolls up her shirt, apologising again and again as she winces. He doesn’t realise what he’s doing until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve been saying sorry for the last ten minutes,” she murmurs. He bites his lip, and rocks back on his heels.

“I’ll help you to bed,” he murmurs. She leans on him as he takes her back to his room and puts her to bed.

“Grant?” she murmurs, as he turns to leave.

“Yeah?” he replies, pausing.

“You didn’t sleep with her.”

Well that’s a little unexpected. “No.”

“You came to find me.”

“Yeah.”

Silence. Skye might be smiling, but he can’t really see her in the dark.

“Thank you.”

He leaves, more conflicted than ever.


	14. Good Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant makes breakfast. The pair get an unwelcome visitor. Grant says too much and there are consequences.

When she wakes, Skye is aching and somehow still feeling tired. The sun streaming in the window tells her that it’s later in the morning than she usually wakes, so she rolls out of bed. The pain in her side makes her wince, but she pushes through it and peels off her clothes from the night before. Apparently Grant is too much of a gentleman to undress a woman, something she stores away to examine at a later date. Once she’s decent, she opens the door of Grant’s room and moves out into the hall. A delicious scent is wafting through the apartment, and Skye follows it to the kitchen.

There she finds Grant, facing away from her with a dishtowel over one shoulder, a frying pan in his hand, humming quietly along to the radio while he cooks.

“Is that French toast?”

He almost jumps out of his skin, and whirls around with the pan in his hand. Skye inspects it to discover that yes, it is.

“Morning,” he manages, trying to cover his surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you up.”

His eyes slide over to the table and Skye sees a tray with a plate and cutlery waiting and ready, as well as a cup of tea.

“Were you…” She pauses, trying to grasp what she’s seeing here. “Were you about to bring me breakfast in bed?”

His cheeks colour ever so slightly and she grins at him. “You feel guilty about last night.”

He shakes his head resolutely. “No. No I don’t. I just thought you might like some French toast.”

“You felt guilty,” she sings, stealing a pinch of the eggy bread out of the pan, ignoring his indignant noise. “You big softie.”

He sighs. “Fine. I feel bad about it. Really bad. You shouldn’t have felt like you had to leave the apartment, and you hurt yourself-”

“Not badly,” she interrupts, bringing her plate over. “It was only a little blood. It could have been worse.”

Grant flips the slice onto the plate and slings another into the pan for himself. “Exactly. What if it had been? What would I have done then?”

Skye pauses, because what is she supposed to say to that? And what exactly is he trying to tell her here? She takes her plate to the table and drenches her toast in syrup. The first bite is delicious, and as the syrup pools hot and sweet on her tongue, Grant sits opposite her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, at last. “I know I said it about a hundred times last night, but I really am. I messed up.”

Skye shakes her head. “It’s okay, Ward. Really, it is.” She stretches a little, glancing around. “What day is it? Do I get to work yet?”

“First,” he says, and his tone does not bode well, “it’s Sunday, which means the bar’s closed. Second, you’re still injured. You’re not working until you can move without bleeding.”

“I can’t afford to keep up this holiday, Grant,” she tells him firmly. He shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about any of that stuff, okay?” he says. “Phil and Melinda just want you to get better. They’re sorting everything out.”

She narrows her eyes. “What exactly does that mean?”

He stops talking, and it’s a guilty silence.

“Grant,” she says sharply, and she sees him break.

“They may have… paid your hospital bill.”

Her eyes widen. “They _didn’t,_ ” she groans. “Oh my God. They can’t do that, I have to pay them back-”

“They won’t take anything,” he says, shaking his head again. “Trust me, Skye, don’t try. Homeland makes them a decent amount of money, and neither of them have families to support. Fitz broke his arm on shift last year, and they did exactly the same thing. You won’t get them to take a dime.”

She flops back in her chair, trying to be surly about it, but she’s too relieved. She never could have afforded the cheapest of hospital bills. She makes a note to grovel in thanks to her bosses later. Her toast begins to look more and more inviting as a way to distract herself.

“I’m curious,” she says, changing the subject between mouthfuls of her breakfast. “Why did you go with her in the first place?”

Grant seems uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, but Skye doesn’t back down. This can be his penance for leaving her alone like that.

“I had a bad night, I guess,” he mumbles. “She was there. It was convenient.”

Skye observes him squirming for a few moments, and it ignites a curious warmth in her chest. He’s _really_ uncomfortable. She’s enjoying it.

“She was beautiful,” she nudges.

“She wasn’t what I wanted,” he says eventually, looking her square in the eye. She’s not expecting that, and she glances down at the table, flushing faintly. Ward sighs. “I just didn’t figure it out soon enough.”

Skye looks up as he opens his mouth again. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. Seriously. Enough.”

He laughs, and she has to grin at the sound. The first night she met him, she wouldn’t have thought him capable of making a noise like that. But here he is, warm, happy, laughing. And all with her. _Because_ of her. Skye shifts in her seat.

Before she can react, there is a sharp knock on the door. Skye glances down at her pyjama shorts and t-shirt, and Grant takes the hint. He gets up and goes to the door.

Skye peers after him, then opts to finish her cooling breakfast. She can hear voices at the door. All of a sudden, Grant’s voice rises in volume, and she hears footsteps. Before she can even stand up, someone appears in the doorway.

“ _Miles?_ ” she splutters, acutely aware of the fact she’s barely wearing any clothes.

“What the hell, Skye?” Miles demands. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days.”

Skye takes in the man in front of her. It’s been months since she saw him last, and she thought at the time that she wouldn’t see him again. It’s not exactly cheap to fly out from Austin, and he’s clearly come here expecting something.

“What are you _doing_ here?” she growls. Grant has arrived in the kitchen, trying to pull Miles back. Clearly, Skye’s ex hasn’t asked politely to come inside.

“What are you doing _here?_ ” he shoots back sharply. He’s looking around, and Skye sees that Grant is fuming at this intrusion.

“You need to leave,” she says firmly. “This isn’t your property, or mine. You have no right to be here.”

“Who’s this?” he demands, swinging around to confront Ward. The waiter’s muscular frame doesn’t seem to intimidate the slender Texan one bit, and Miles steps forward to stare Ward in the eye. “Is this the reason you haven’t been calling me?”

“ _This_ is none of your business,” she snaps. “And you know damn well why I haven’t been calling you.”

“I come all the way from Austin and find you in bed with some random dude?” Miles says, turning on Skye once more.

“You _left,_ Miles,” she says, her voice shaking with anger. “Remember? It was right after you screwed me in a cheap motel room. I thought I made it clear that if you walked out, you didn’t get to walk back in. And you fucking _walked out.”_

Her hands are curled into fists, and she almost wants to walk over to stand beside Grant. Let Lydon assume whatever the fuck he wants to assume.

He makes a move towards her, but Grant steps in between them before he can do anything stupid. Skye has a sudden realisation.

“How did you find me?” she asks. “How did you know I was here?”

Miles looks guilty all of a sudden, and it only takes her a moment to put two and two together. He pulls out his phone and she gives him the most disgusted look she can muster.

“Seriously?” she asks, her voice venomous. “You’re _tracking_ me, you psychopath?”

“I’m not a fucking psychopath!” he shouts. Ward places himself more securely between them. “What was I supposed to do after you cut me out like that, you selfish bitch?”

“Easy,” Grant growls, his eyes flashing. Miles turns his attention on the waiter.

“So he _is_ ,” her ex says, bitterly but with a twinge of triumph in his voice. “I didn’t think you were that shallow. How is she, then?” He stepped towards Grant. “You found all her turn-ons yet? You figured out what a whore she-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ward says, his voice flat and terrifying. Skye starts, and even Miles stops mid-sentence. Ward is now advancing on Miles, herding him slowly but surely back towards the door. “Whatever is or isn’t happening between me and Skye is none of your business anymore. She’s not with you. She doesn’t want to see you again. And neither do I. You’re a manipulative, selfish, abusive asshole, and if you ever come near her again I’ll break your legs.”

He snatches Miles’ phone from his hand and walks to the door. Miles trails behind him like a child, grabbing for it, but Ward flings it out the front door and it hits the wall, denting the plaster and shattering the device. The screen dies, and Skye has to hide her astonished grin.

“You’re a fucking psycho,” Miles is snarling, as he kneels over the broken pieces of his phone. “I could fucking _sue_ you for this-”

“I look forward to it,” Ward mutters, and slams the door, locking it behind him. He turns to Skye, breathless.

“Sorry,” he says, and she shakes her head. He apologises again and she advances on him. Ward looks almost afraid, but Skye slips her arms around him and hugs him tight.

“You’re incredible,” she murmurs into his shoulder. She’s overcome. The fact that Ward would do something like that for her, would defend her against someone like that, it’s so completely foreign to her that she’s having trouble processing it at all.

“Come on,” he says shakily. “I’ll make some tea.”

They sit on the couch with steaming mugs of tea. Skye drinks hers in silence, as does Ward, until it apparently becomes too much for him.

“He didn’t deserve you,” he blurts, glancing immediately at Skye as if he regrets ever opening his mouth at all.

“What?” she mumbles, not prepared for that at all.

“Nothing,” he says at once. “No, not nothing. I just… I just mean that he was an asshole. And you deserve someone much better than him.”

She gives a weary smile. “Someone like you?”

He blushes so completely red that she’s afraid for a moment she’s given him a heart attack. It’s so completely incongruous, seeing that schoolboy blush on the cheeks of someone who could quite literally have any woman he wants.

“It’s not… I didn’t mean me,” he attempts to clarify. Skye just watches him as he comes apart under her gaze. “I meant… obviously not me, I didn’t mean me, I just… I meant that you deserve _someone_ better. Not me. Definitely not me.”

“Oh my God,” she splutters, dissolving into laughter. “Oh God, you’re precious. Grant, it’s okay, I’m just teasing.”

He flushes again. “Right. Well, I still didn’t mean me.”

“That’s a pity,” she says, tilting her head. “Because I did.”

He closes his mouth and shakes his head gently. She frowns. “Why are you doing that?”

He’s chuckling softly now, and it’s kind of irritating. “Ward. Why are you laughing?”

“Because I don’t deserve you either,” he says, at last.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says, parroting his own words from earlier back to him again. “Ward, you’re a good person.”

“No I’m not,” he murmurs. He looks almost like he feels sorry for her for feeling that way. She sets down her tea, and takes his out of his hands, then scoots over the couch so her knee is touching his thigh as she faces him.

“Don’t,” he says softly, but even as he says it, his hand settles on her knee. “Skye… I’m not good enough for you.”

“I disagree,” she murmurs, inching closer. Her fingers slide over his hip and he shivers under her touch. Skye can feel the heat of his skin, and she can _see_ his pulse in his throat, she’s so close. All she has to do is cross the last few inches between them.

“I can’t give you anything,” he whispers. His eyelashes are fluttering, and it’s so damn mesmerising that Skye almost forgets to breathe.

“Yes you can,” she replies. She can feel his hand sliding onto the small of her back, pulling her in closer. This is going to happen. He can’t stop himself now, and she doesn’t want him to.

“You don’t want me,” he breathes. She can feel his words tumbling across her cheek. He’s so incredibly close. She can feel his pulse.

“Wrong.”

Skye kisses him. Her first thought is that Grant tastes like tea, and warmth, and safety. Then comes the explosion of sensations. Grant grabs her, pulling her bodily into his lap like she weighs nothing. Even in desperation, he is careful of her injured torso, even when Skye has forgotten about it. She straddles his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips eagerly to his. He is slow, but fiery, and when his tongue flickers between her teeth she’s sure she’s died and gone to heaven.

Slowly, torturously slowly, she pulls back. She’s sitting in his lap, and he’s staring at her like he’s found God, and it’s a totally new experience for Skye. How is she supposed to react to a look like that?

He lets her go. They’re both panting slightly as Skye slides back onto the couch, taking her mug up into her hands again.

“What now?” he says, eventually. She laughs, and wants to kiss him all over again.

“Now we let things happen,” Skye tells him. “You worry too much. Just relax. It’ll work out. Somehow.”

“I’m such a mess,” he murmurs. She slides a hand onto his shoulder.

“Me too,” she smiles.

Skye gets up and moves back to his bedroom. Ward falls asleep on the couch after a little tossing and turning. When he wakes in the morning, she’s already gone, a little note on his bed telling him that she’s gone back to her van. Despite that, he heads to work that night with a smile on his face.


	15. Tougher than a little knifing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye goes back to work. Homeland feels more like home than she remembers.

When Phil arrives at work on Monday, he finds Skye behind the bar, setting up. He pauses a moment, surprised, and then heads right over to give her a dressing down. Halfway to the bar, she looks up, and smiles at him. Phil finds himself overcome with relief that she’s alright, and instead of telling her off, he walks behind the bar and hugs her.

“It’s good to have you back,” he says. “Although I seem to remember telling you to take another week off.”

She pulls away, pouting.

“Come on, Phil,” she wheedles, twisting her dishcloth around her hands. “It’s really boring, recovering from being stabbed.”

He has to laugh at that, and he leans on the bar a moment.

“Alright,” he says. “But I want you taking a break every hour, and if you feel bad at any time, you come and tell me, okay?”

She grumbles her assent, and Phil leaves her to finish setting up. May arrives, and immediately heads for the bar.

“I’m _fine,_ ” Phil can hear Skye protesting. The door opens again, and Ward walks in, whistling. That’s slightly concerning. Phil’s never heard him whistle once in all the years they’ve known one another.

“You and Skye got along, then?” he asks the waiter, as he pulls off his jacket.

“Yep,” Grant smiles. Phil is almost alarmed by how cheerful Ward looks.

“What happened?” he asks immediately. Ward seems to check himself, and glances guiltily at his boss.

“Nothing.”

Phil arches an eyebrow at his employee, who squirms a little. Phil always knows more than he lets on. Ward is used to that, but he has never really been in a situation like this before.

“Nothing important,” the waiter amends. Phil waits, and Grant buckles.

“Skye and I kissed,” he blurts. Phil, if anything, is even more surprised by that. Ward actually making a move on someone he wants? Unheard of. Maybe Skye’s done a better job at humanising him than Phil ever could have done.

“Keep it outside of work, okay?” Phil murmurs, and goes to check the dining room.

Grant is left in the kitchen, wondering at the look Phil gave him. Is it judgement from his boss, because he’s now been somehow involved with two of the three women who work at Homeland? The thought makes him more than a little uncomfortable, and he tries to push it out of his head. Skye is not like May. Not by a long shot. Hopefully, he will be able to make Phil understand that. But, for now, he is not being punished, and no one in this building hates him. Maybe things are going to go right, for once.

-

“He did _what_ to her?”

Terry, one of Skye’s regulars, is eagerly recounting the story of the atrocity committed against everyone’s favourite bartender. She can sense the people around her getting more and more riled up as Terry speaks.

“…and he waited for her out in the alley, and when she came out, he stuck her with a knife!”

There are a chorus of shocked noises, and a few people turn to Skye as if to check that she’s actually still alive. She smiles reassuringly at them.

Another of her regulars thumps his glass down on the bar.

“Prison’s not good enough for that bastard,” he growls. “He deserves to be strung up.”

There is resounding approval for this idea, and Skye has to hand out another round of drinks to appease her customers.

“Are you alright to be back, then, Skye?” Terry asks her, when she slides his next beer across the bar.

“I’m a bit sore,” she admits with a shrug. “But you know me, I’m tougher than a little knifing.”

The patrons laugh, and a quiet cheer goes up. They toast her, and Skye takes a moment to bask in the sensation of having people who care about her, and are angry at the thought that someone might hurt her. To her surprise, the feeling is not quite so foreign as it once might have been to her. Perhaps being at Homeland has given her more than she thought.

One of the truckers glances at the door, where Ward has been appearing at intervals to check on Skye. The waiter is leaning in the doorway, watching the bartender chatting, laughing and handing out drinks, and he is watching with a smile on his face. He glances over at the trucker, and seems to realise he is being watched. He straightens himself up and leaves the doorway, though not before glancing over his shoulder once more at Skye. Just to be sure.

“That waiter’s sweet on you, Skye,” the man says gruffly, his smile hidden beneath a bristly beard.

She waves the idea off, but there is a small smile on her face. “Don’t talk shit, Earl.”

“He’s right!” Terry interjects, grinning at her. “He’s been hanging around all night. No other explanation, the guy’s gotta be crazy about you.”

Skye tries to shut the conversation down, but the blush on her cheeks gives her away. There is a rumbling cheer from the patrons around her, and an all round thumping of glasses on the bar.

“Little Skye-bird’s in love!” Earl crows. Skye gives him the finger, but he’s smiling at her like a doting father. She knows it’s strange to feel such affection for this odd assortment of rough truckers. Apparently, friends can be found in the most unlikely places.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” one man says, shaking his head. “By the look on his face, that guy isn’t going anywhere.”

She laughs, and hands out a round of free drinks. She forgets to take her mandatory breaks for the next couple of hours, but she’s too happy to care. The night wears on, and eventually she’s shooing out the last of her reluctant customers, who assure her a little drunkenly before they leave that if they see Quinn around, they’ll beat him to a pulp for her. She shuts the door, and begins to clean down the bar. It’s slow going, stiff and sore as she is, but she relishes the work. It’s good to be _doing_ something instead of just lying around.

“Need any help?”

It’s Ward, dishtowel over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up, and that same soft smile on his face. Skye smiles back at him.

“Thanks,” she says, leaning back against the counter. “I’d appreciate it.”

Once, back before Homeland, she never would have accepted help. Even in her early days of working here, she _especially_ wouldn’t have taken it from Ward. But now she knows he doesn’t want to belittle her, or condescend, or be superior. He wants to help because he cares, and knowing that feels good.

Grant takes up her cloth from where she left it on the bench and wipes down while she loads glasses into the racks of the little dishwasher. It’s got nothing on Berta, but it’s more convenient than hauling everything out to the back room for Fitz and Simmons to deal with. They work in amiable silence, and within twenty minutes the bar is done. Skye squeezes his arm on her way past, and she catches a warm smile on his lips. That same warmth creeps into her chest, and she chides herself for being so gooey. It’s not her style. And yet, here she is.

May has cooked dinner by the time they sit down at the table. Skye looks down at her lasagna and gives a happy little sigh. Anything is better than hospital food, but something someone has cooked especially for her, just because she likes it, is wonderful. Fitz and Simmons take the seats either side of her, flanking her, and immediately begin to chatter.

“How are you feeling?” Phil asks, over the top of the kitchen hands.

“Forgot to take a couple of my breaks,” she admits, smiling at her boss. “Feeling kind of tired. But it’s good to be back.”

“Good to have you back,” May smiles. Ward nods along, and that heavy warmth in Skye’s chest spreads and intensifies. She has a constant smile on her face now. Jemma occasionally touches her arm, or bumps her shoulder against Skye’s, and the touch is comforting. Skye looks from Fitz to Simmons, from Phil to May, and finally to Ward. All of them are talking and smiling, and looking over at her every so often. She is not on the outside here, not one bit. These people care about her. And she cares about them too. She _loves_ these people. The sudden realisation is so overwhelming that she stands up abruptly.

“Skye?” Phil says, warily. “Everything okay?”

She nods, but she can’t speak around the burning lump in her throat. She pushes back her chair and flees the room, heading out the kitchen door and into the relieving coolness of the night air. She breathes deeply, willing herself to get a grip. Behind her, the door opens.

“Skye?”

It’s him. She turns, and is immediately wrapped in a pair of warm arms, pressed against a warm, firm chest.

“What’s wrong?” Grant asks, his voice soft and worried.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Nothing… nothing’s wrong. This place is perfect, Grant, you all care about me, and I’ve never felt like this before. I feel…”

“What?” he coaxes.

“Loved,” she murmurs. He laughs softly, and tightens his arms around her.

“You are,” he assures her. “By all of us. And you deserve it, okay?”

She nods, and presses her face into his shoulder, no longer caring that her makeup will leave marks on his white shirt. Clearly he doesn’t either, because he strokes her hair, hushing her softly.

When she pulls back, he looks a little worried, like he’s somehow crossed a line. Skye just smiles, and stretches up to press a kiss to his lips. Their second kiss more than lives up to the first. Grant seems to wrap himself around her, as if he can’t bear the thought of letting go, and for her part, Skye has no intentions of releasing him either. They kiss, and for a moment everything is forgotten. Then she pulls away, wiping her eyes. Her mascara comes off on her fingers, and she sighs.

“You want me to take you home?” he asks softly. “You can stay at my place, if you want, or I can take you back to yours.”

She shakes her head. “I want to go back inside.”

He smiles broadly, and she wants to curl back into him again. He’s fucking adorable like this. For once, Skye doesn’t question why a man like this would feel for her. She just accepts that this is the way things are, and something releases inside her.

He takes her hand and walks her back inside. Her little family greet her with smiles, and Jemma gets up to hug her. Skye swallows down the tears that threaten to rise again, and sits back down to her dinner.


	16. The world lights up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye and Grant walk home together.

His arm is still around her shoulders when Phil locks the door behind them, and switches off the lights. Grant finds himself standing in the pool of orange light under the streetlamp, one arm around Skye, and he doesn’t want to go. He watches Fitzsimmons start the walk home, and he wants to call them back. He sees Melinda and Phil get into their respective cars, and he wants to run to them, and thank them both for what they have done for Skye tonight. She is glowing in the dim light, radiating happiness, and he’s never seen a more beautiful sight.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks, squeezing her shoulder gently. Her van is parked just around the corner. It will be a short walk, nowhere near as long as he’d like. When he gets no answer from her, he looks down, and she’s _blushing._

“Skye?” he asks.

“I…” she hesitates. “I was thinking… maybe… we could go back to your place.”

Something swells and overflows in his chest, and he wants to wrap her in a tight hug. He wants to laugh at the idea that she could ever be anything but welcome in his home. The blush on her cheeks and the almost shy way she’s looking up at him through her lashes are stoking a fire in his chest, and he feels like he can’t contain how much he wants to kiss her.

What the hell is happening to him?

“Of course,” he smiles, warm and eager. “I’d like that.”

She ducks against him, and they start the walk back to his place.

“Your bike,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.

“I’ll get it tomorrow,” he shrugs. “Besides, it’s a nice walk.”

And it is. They walk pressed together, his arm around her shoulders, their steps in sync, under the pools of light cast by the intermittent lamps overhead. Grant can’t quite believe how far they’ve come. How is it possible that a few months can change so much?

There is no conversation, but there doesn’t need to be. Grant knows that she’s probably thinking the same thing he is.

When they arrive, he unlocks the door. They walk inside, and Grant notices that something seems off about Skye – she’s shifting from foot to foot, suddenly shy and uncertain.

“Everything okay?” he asks, tilting his head. She nods, but the blush on her cheeks is back. He traces the tip of one finger over her cheek, and she shivers noticeably. Oh.

Grant dips his head and kisses her. Whatever he’s expecting in return, it’s not for Skye to fling herself on him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kisses him back, and it’s like the world has exploded into colour and light. Grant holds her by the small of her back, desperately pressing into her.

Eventually, they have to surface for air, and they separate, panting. Skye’s cheeks are flushed once more, her hair tousled, and Grant realises he’s been running his hands through it without thinking.

“M…maybe we should have a drink,” he murmurs, his voice shaky.

“Yeah,” she husks, nodding. This needs to come down a notch. He knows she doesn’t want intense, and though it’s kind of his default setting, he knows he can tone it down. For her. Casual. He can do that, right?

He goes to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“Neat?” he calls over his shoulder. She gives him a quiet confirmation, and he pours two glasses out. He doesn’t take the bottle. He’s not trying to get her drunk.

Skye takes her glass and sits on the couch. Grant sits next to her, because despite the fact that he’s trying to be respectful, she has some sort of magnetic pull that’s refusing to let him be anywhere else but with her.

“This is…”

He looks at her as she trails off. She’s swirling her whiskey around her glass, and he’s not sure whether she’s talking about the drink or this _thing_ that’s now between them.

“Good,” he suggests. It sounds lame even as it leaves his lips, and she arches one eyebrow at him. God, she’s beautiful.

“We could watch a movie,” she murmurs. He nods way too eagerly and grabs the remote. After a couple of minutes, Skye decides on an old Western. They settle back into the comfortable couch. Ward drums one finger on the rim of his glass without being conscious of doing it.

About ten minutes in, she tucks her legs up under herself and curls up slightly. The angle of her body brings her closer to him, and Ward, though it’s the cheesiest thing he’s ever done, stretches out his arm along the back of the couch. Her head is resting on his upper arm now, and he’s aware of every movement, every breath she takes. He tries to focus on the film.

They finish their drinks, and Grant takes her glass from her. Their fingers brush and he swallows thickly.

“I’ll just…”

He slides off the couch and takes the glasses to the kitchen, spending longer washing them than he needs to. He needs to calm down.

The moment he sits back on the couch, Skye shuffles over so that their shoulders are pressed together. He glances at her, surprised, and that blush is back on her cheeks, the one that makes him want to wrap her up and hold her tight. He’s not sure, but he puts an arm around her. The happy little sighing sound she makes is enough to make him grin in the dim light.

Another ten minutes goes by, and Ward couldn’t care less what’s happening in the Old West. Skye has a hand on his knee, and her leg is pressed up against his, and Grant can hardly control himself. He does, though. Just.

“We should probably get an early night,” Skye murmurs, and for a moment he doesn’t register that she’s joking. He looks down at her, but it’s a trap. The second he turns his head, she captures his lips with hers, sliding one hand onto his neck.

Grant doesn’t know why the world lights up when she kisses him, but he lets it wash over him as Skye presses in close. His hands slide onto her back, and he pulls her awkwardly onto his lap, but she helps, she wants to be there, and soon she is straddling him, kneeling above him, pulling away to smile down at him.

“What?” he breathes, as she smiles.

“You’re stupidly attractive,” she tells him, tracing the line of his jaw with a finger. He shivers, and one hand moves of its own accord to grab her ass.

“You too,” he whispers.

There’s no more left to say, and both of them know it. Skye presses harder into his lap and he makes a little choking sound. She laughs, and kisses his neck, kisses his jaw, finally kisses his lips. Grant growls, and pulls her in close. After a moment, she tries to pull away, and though it’s the last thing in the world that he wants, he lets her. He doesn’t understand what she’s trying to do until her scrabbling fingers get purchase on the hem of his shirt and she tugs. Grant gives a shaky smile, and leans forward so she can pull his shirt off.

“That’s just ridiculous,” she says, running a hand down his chest. Grant laughs, but there’s something hot and heavy resting just under the surface of the sound, and he knows if he doesn’t touch her soon he might go insane.

Skye beats him to the punch and pulls her own shirt off. He takes a moment to stare, to commit every single inch of her to memory.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and he’s not aware he’s repeating that phrase over and over until Skye stops his lips with a kiss. He wants to do this properly, God, he knows she deserves it, but he can’t stop touching her, can’t stop kissing, can’t stop himself from getting hard. Skye finds his belt buckle and fights it for a moment before it surrenders, and Grant’s head is spinning because this is _happening,_ because he’s the luckiest man alive. He lets Skye pull clothing off both of them until they’re in a state of semi-undress, and there’s skin on skin, and fuck, she’s _beautiful._

Grant gasps out something along those lines as she kisses him, but there’s a hand between his legs and he can’t think straight, he can’t keep track of his own thoughts. Everything is the woman straddling his lap, everything is Skye. Nothing else in the whole world matters.

“Bed,” he manages to gasp, and tries to pull back, but Skye shakes her head with a little growl, pushing him back into the couch cushions. There is something fierce in her eyes, and he understands that she’s feeling the same way he is – if they stop touching, they might actually die. So he doesn’t stop.

He forms a semi-coherent question about protection, but she silences him again.

“I need you,” she whispers. “Here. Now.”

It’s the best thing he’s ever heard. When she slides a hand between them and guides him into her, it’s all he can do not to let a moan escape. She’s slick, and hot, and the look on her face is perfection itself.

“Fuck,” she whimpers. “Oh- oh _fuck-“_

“Skye,” he murmurs, his voice ragged. Grant doesn’t know which way is up anymore. All he knows is he needs to move.

So he does. Skye helps him, and after a few moments she lowers her head to his neck. He feels her teeth scrape his skin and he lets out a sound embarrassingly close to a whimper. Their hips knock together clumsily, skin sliding against skin, and it’s not perfect, but somehow it _is._ Skye moves a hand between her legs, but Grant beats her to it, and she falls against him, shivering. He can feel it when she comes, and the sensation is enough to bring him right to the edge. Her teeth nip his shoulder and it clears his head enough for him to get himself under control. It doesn’t take long, though, before Skye convulses again, a low moan escaping her, and Grant just can’t hold on any longer. He buries his face in her shoulder as he starts to spasm, but Skye pulls his head up and makes him look at her.

“S…Skye,” he whispers. She nods, and kisses him. Slowly, they come down off the clouds together, and slump into the couch.

She says nothing, and if not for the smile he can feel against his shoulder, he’d be worried. When he’s pulled himself together, he stands up, scooping her into his arms and kissing her again. He leaves their clothes scattered around the couch and carries her to his bed, setting her down. He climbs in beside her, thinking that maybe he’ll slide his arms around her and fall asleep, but Skye has other ideas. She rolls, and catches his lips in another searing kiss. Apparently that’s all Grant needs to be good to go. It’s embarrassing how much control she has over him, but he doesn’t care, as long as she never stops kissing him. He rolls onto her, pressing her back into his pillows, and he knows that the moan she gives him is going to stay with him forever.

-

He wakes with someone draped across his chest. A groggy glance down tells him that it’s Skye, and the night before comes flooding back into his mind. He smiles, and rests back on the pillows, letting himself doze contentedly, one hand on the warm skin of her back.

He wakes again when she rolls off him, yawning. Grant opens his eyes, and watches her sit up. His hand drifts across the bed and lazily brushes her hip. She looks down, and smiles at him.

“Skye,” he murmurs. She laughs softly. “Going somewhere?”

She shakes her head, and ducks down to press a kiss to his lips. “Go back to sleep. I need to get something from my van. I’ll get us some coffee.”

He starts to protest, but she kisses him again, and he flops back onto the pillows with a sleepy smile on his face.

“Kay,” he mumbles. “Come back quickly.”

She gets up and leaves the room. Grant can hear her dressing out by the couch, and he lets himself drift into his memories of the night before. He doesn’t see her pause at the door. Skye slips out of his apartment, closing the door behind her.


	17. I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's missing from Homeland tonight.

By the time he gets to work, irritation is tainting the warm, fuzzy happiness Ward is feeling. It’s bad enough that Skye left early, but she didn’t even bother to send him a message telling him where she was. He’s tried calling her a dozen times between waking up to find her gone and arriving at work, but she’s not answering.

He’s the first one in at Homeland, so he unlocks and begins to set up. He’s early, but the work distracts him from Skye’s mysterious disappearance earlier. As he lays out cutlery, he hears the door open, and the sound of Fitz and Simmons chattering floats into the quiet restaurant.

“Evening,” Fitz calls, sticking his head into the dining room. Ward waves in reply, and after a few moments he hears the gurgling chug of Berta starting up. As Ward finishes up with the cutlery, Jemma wanders into the dining room.

“I saw you and Skye leave last night,” she says, half-accusingly. The other half is gossipy delight, and Ward’s glad he’s not the blushing type.

“I walked her home,” he mutters.

“Right,” Jemma grins. “Walked her home. Sure.”

He rolls his eyes at the girl, and she laughs. “It was a long time coming.”

“And what about you and Fitz?” he asks, changing the subject abruptly. Jemma blushes an alarming shade of red.

“I think I left something in the kitchen,” she mumbles. It’s Ward’s turn to chuckle as she makes her escape. He finishes setting the dining room and moves into the kitchen to start prepping just as Phil and Melinda arrive. Evidently they’ve heard about Ward and Skye’s joint departure from the restaurant already, because Melinda has a faint smirk on her face. Ward just _knows_ she’s won money off Phil.

“Skye in yet?” Phil asks, slightly disgruntled.

“Not yet,” Ward says.

“Any idea when she’ll be in?” Melinda asks lightly. Ward knows she’s pressing for more information, and for a moment he marvels at the fact that his boss can be as much of a gossip as Jemma.

“No idea,” he replies, shrugging.

They chop vegetables for a while, but when the clock hits five-thirty and Skye still hasn’t made an appearance, Grant is starting to get a little edgy. Has he done something wrong? Has she gone and gotten herself hurt again? A million possibilities crop up in his head, and by the time he goes to Phil to talk to him, Skye is an hour late for work.

“Set up the bar,” Phil tells him. There’s a crease between his brows that lets Grant know he’s worried. May is quiet as she preps. Something is wrong, and everyone at Homeland knows it.

“Phil,” Grant protests. Phil looks up, glaring at Grant like this is all his fault. It occurs to the waiter that it probably is.

“Go set up the bar,” his boss says again. “You’ll be working it tonight.”

Grant can’t help but feel like he’s the one in trouble, though it’s Skye who hasn’t bothered to turn up for work. As he’s setting up the bar, Jemma brings in a tray of clean glasses.

“So I guess Skye moved her van outside of your place,” she grins, knowingly. Grant frowns at the kitchen hand.

“What?” he asks, as he slides the glasses behind the bar counter. Jemma’s smile falters minutely.

“Well it’s not in her normal space,” she said. “Fitz and I usually walk past it. It was gone when we came past on our way here.”

“It was gone?” Grant repeats. His stomach is dropping into his shoes. Can Skye really have left? He thinks about what she said the first time she was in his apartment, after he got her out of hospital. _Moving on._ Is it possible she’s done just that?

“Ward?”

He looks up. Jemma is looking at him over the bar, concerned.

“I guess she had stuff to do,” he manages, though both of them know that’s not the case. The only time Skye’s missed work since she started is when Quinn tried to kill her. The thought just makes Grant feel faintly sick.

“I have to go,” she says gently. He nods, and continues to set up. By the time the first customers arrive, he is so distracted that he’s barely greeting the diners as he hands them their menus. The bar isn’t busy – a few people have seen that Skye’s not around and left after a couple of drinks. Grant can’t find it in him to be offended. He’s too worried about Skye.

He goes over every second of the night before in his mind as he serves. A couple of the diners seem irked that he’s not giving them his full attention, but Grant doesn’t notice. He’s busy trying to remember if Skye looked offended or upset at any point the night before. He can’t recall, but she must have done. If she’s taken off, how is he supposed to apologise? He sends her a few more texts as the night wears on, but there’s only silence from her. He doesn’t understand how he can have screwed something up so soon after starting it. Maybe it’s in his nature.

By eleven, the bar is empty, and he shuts it down. The last of the diners leave, and all there is left to do is clean up and eat dinner. Grant tidies up on autopilot, still lost in thought.

“You don’t think she’d have left, do you?” Fitz asks, over dinner. Jemma elbows him sharply and he winces. Melinda glances at Phil, then at Ward.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Maybe she got caught up somewhere. We don’t have to assume anything.”

“I’m sure she’ll be back,” Jemma murmurs. She looks at Ward, as if searching for confirmation. He says nothing, because he’s not sure if that’s true. He saw Skye’s face when she talked about leaving a couple of weeks earlier. There’s something in her that doesn’t want to believe she can belong anywhere. She might be running scared.

He takes his unfinished meal to the kitchen and scrapes his plate. He’s not hungry, and besides, he has something more important to do.

The walk from Homeland to the spot Skye usually parks her van only takes about five minutes. The empty spot hits him like a punch in the chest, and he sits down on the curb, trying to convince himself that maybe, just maybe, she’ll drive up right now and put an end to all his worrying. But there is another part of him that knows that she’s not coming. The only thing Grant doesn’t know is what he’s done to make her leave.

He sits for a while, until a fluttering noise catches his attention. He glances around, and spots a flash of yellow caught under the tire of the car in front of the spot he’s sitting by. He frowns, and reaches out for it. It’s a Post-It note that has blown loose from somewhere. He turns it over.

_I’m sorry._

He stares at it for a full minute. Maybe it’s not Skye’s writing. Maybe it’s just a freakish coincidence. But he knows she has Post-Its in her van, and that she uses them to write notes, and God, has she left this message just for him? He feels nuts, reading the dirty note over and over while he’s sitting in the gutter, waiting for a woman he still barely knows to come back, even though he knows she probably won’t. Skye is a mystery, and he’s been an idiot to think he can solve her. She doesn’t want to be solved. And she doesn’t want him. He was right in that respect, at least.

He gets up after a while, and lets the note drift back into the gutter. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Ward walks back to Homeland, and gets on his bike. The ride to his apartment is quick, and when he walks inside and turns on the lights, the place seems lonelier than it ever has before. He can feel Skye’s absence like its own presence, like a ghost following him around the apartment.

 _Idiot,_ it’s saying. _Damn idiot._

He picks up his phone after a while, and calls her again. When he hears the tone, he perks up. She’s turned her phone back on. After three rings, though, it cuts to voicemail. She’s hung up on him. He bites back a shout, and listens.

“Can’t talk right now, leave a message.”

Just that is enough to make him want to find her. He hasn’t heard her voice in a day, and he misses her. Pathetic. Useless. Her voicemail beeps at him.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he says, fully aware he’s talking to no one. “I don’t know… what I did. But I’m sorry. Please come back. Please.” He hangs up, because he might as well be down on his knees, and he’ll only beg more if he keeps talking.

He leaves his phone on his bedside table all night, but by the time morning breaks again, Skye is still silent.


	18. Throwing Rocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye hits the coast and loses herself. She and Grant finally have a conversation.

The sight of the coast should be beautiful. It should bring smiles, and happiness, and all that shit. But when Skye sees the blue of the ocean through the windscreen of her van, she just feels that same tightness in her chest she’s been feeling ever since she walked out of Grant’s apartment early in the morning.

She still doesn’t know exactly what it was that drove her out of there. Maybe the way he woke up and smiled at her. Maybe how good it made her feel. She’s still panicking, and she needs something to clear her head.

When she parks by the pier and steps out into the sea breeze, she breathes deep, thinking that maybe the cool, salty air will provide that rebirth she’s seeking so desperately. No such luck. Her head is still full of the memories of how it felt when Grant held her close to his chest. She shakes her head, and pulls out her phone. Still turned off, like it has been ever since she got into her van in the small hours. Her thumb hovers over the button, and she wills herself to turn it on. But the thought of getting that call, and having to explain herself… she opens the door of her van and hurls the thing right back inside, slamming the door behind it.

Over the water, the sun is going down.

She goes to a club once it’s dark enough to justify it. All she wants to do is forget everything, and alcohol, loud music and dancing should bring her close enough to her old life that she can pretend Homeland never happened.

She’s elected for a short black dress, and it does her a hell of a lot of justice.

Skye goes straight for the bar first. The club still isn’t crowded, and she needs a crowd she can lose herself in. She doesn’t know anyone in this town, and no one knows her. Anonymity. It’s what she likes. It’s where she belongs – nowhere, as no one. Skye ignores the bartender flirting with her, and orders five shots of vodka. It’s not even ten yet, but she’s not planning on remembering tonight.

The five shots go down easy, and she opts for the next one on the rocks so she has time to let the alcohol sink in. And sink in it does. Over the next half hour, she’s almost convinced that she feels better. Maybe she can even forget about Grant, and how good it felt to have his lips on hers, how wonderful it was to hear him talking about her like she’s the most important person in his entire world-

She slams back her drink and makes for the dance floor.

Skye needs to move, needs to shake out these thoughts for good. Several guys are already eyeing her up, but maybe that’s what she needs anyway. She shoves her way deep into the crowd, and when she reaches what she judges to be the centre, she closes her eyes, listens to the thumping, relentless music, and begins to dance.

She’s never been one for elegance when it comes to dancing in clubs. But when you’re dancing in a crowd of drunk guys, elegance isn’t exactly the most important thing. Not when you look like Skye, at any rate. Within ten seconds, some guy has his hands on her hips. She opens her eyes, ready to push him away, but he wanders off on his own. He’s soon replaced by some dude who starts to grind on her, and though she’s not quite drunk enough not to be faintly repulsed, Skye goes with it, sliding her hands onto his hips. The guy can’t believe his luck, and keeps going enthusiastically, until he has to pull away abruptly to run off and be sick. Skye shrugs it off, and fights her way over to the bar, where she downs a couple more shots. Then she’s back in the thick of it, dragging anyone she can over to dance with her. She’s not sure how many guys have had their hands on her, but it doesn’t matter anymore. She needs to feel something, anything that will tell her she hasn’t made a horrible mistake. She needs to feel _good._

When the third guy in an hour tries to lift her dress, Skye shoves him off. She tells herself that it’s not because he’s not Grant. That’s not why she doesn’t want him touching her. She doesn’t _owe_ Grant anything, least of all her fidelity. So why does it make her feel slightly disgusted to think about anyone else with their hands on her?

The clock behind the bar tells her it’s midnight when she orders more shots. She keeps them coming, never once considering anything that doesn’t taste like shit. She doesn’t deserve to get drunk on the good stuff, and at least it’s cheap. Her brain reminds her that she’s got plenty to spend, given how well Phil and Melinda pay her. She downs more and more booze, trying her absolute hardest to forget everything about the months she’s spent at Homeland. As she’s sitting at the bar, a guy comes up to her.

“C’mon, ya little slut,” he slurs, sliding his hands onto her breasts. “Time to go.”

“Fuck off,” she snaps. The bartender moves a little closer.

“Easy, buddy,” he says. “Do you know this girl?”

“Yeah,” the drunk mumbles. “She’s been a little cocktease all night, and now she’s coming home with me.”

“In your dreams,” Skye says, turning to face him. She feels vaguely sick, but she knows she can keep it down. The guy looks furious, and she rolls her eyes.

“Go back to your mom’s basement, creep,” she tells him. He reaches out for her, but his aim is way off, and he only succeeds in grabbing a handful of her dress. She shoves him away, and hears a ripping sound. He staggers back, and Skye is left with a rip down the seam of her dress. Her drunk mind registers that it wasn’t a cheap dress, but all she’s seeing is the scar from where Quinn stuck her with a knife.

The bartender has chased the guy out by the time she lifts her eyes from the puckered scar on her abdomen.

“You okay?” he asks. “D’you want me to call you a cab or something?”

“I’ve dealt with worse than him,” she slurs, pushing off the stool. He looks concerned, but there are more customers to deal with, and he doesn’t have time to come after her as she stumbles towards the door.

Somehow, Skye makes it back to the pier. It’s lit by streetlamps now, and she totters to the end of it and takes off her shoes, setting them on the thick wooden planks beside her as she sits down with her legs dangling off the end over the black water. She just sits for a while, hoping the cold air will sober her up. It doesn’t, so she gets up, grabs her shoes, and makes her way back to her van.

She’s just settled down in the back when she remembers her phone. She fumbles for it in the dark, and finds it under the passenger side seat. With clumsy fingers, she turns it on, wincing at the brightness of the screen. It starts to vibrate as messages pour in, from every single person at Homeland. Her stomach constricts, and for a moment she thinks she’s about to be sick, but then she realises that it’s guilt she’s feeling.

It’s three in the morning when she finally hits Grant’s contact to call him. She lies on what passes for her bed, holding the phone against her ear. It rings three times before he picks up.

“H’lo?” he mumbles. She’s woken him up.

“It’s me,” she says, softly, her words still slurred.

“Skye?”

She hates the way her name sounds when it comes from him. So gentle. Loving. Wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she says, closing her eyes. “I’m sorry, Grant.”

“It’s okay,” he assures her. “Just come back, okay?”

“Can’t,” she mumbles. “It’s too… too much.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Clever,” she snaps.

She considers hanging up, but she owes him better than that.

“What’s too much, Skye?” he asks. He sounds so genuinely concerned for her. It makes her want to punch something.

“M’not coming back, Grant,” she mumbles.

“Please.”

That’s almost enough to break her. He wants her back. He’s pleading with her. She can feel tears gathering in her eyes, and she’s glad she can’t see him, otherwise she’d already be on her way back to him, regardless of the stupidly high amount of alcohol in her blood.

“I’m scared,” she says, and it’s the clearest thing she’s said all night. There is silence for a moment.

“Why?”

She stares at the roof of her van. How is she supposed to explain this to him?

“This life… Homeland…” She hesitates, stumbling over her words. “It’s not my life. It’s not… supposed to be mine.”

“Yes it _is._ ”

She gives a soft laugh, but it mingles with a sob on its way out and emerges as an odd gurgling sound. “No.”

“Why do you think that?” he asks, and he almost sounds angry. “Why would you think you don’t deserve a stable life? We all love you, Skye. Why would you run away from that?”

“I can’t… I don’t know,” she whispers. “Grant, as soon as I think life’s good, everything goes to shit. It happens every time. When I was a kid… when I was with Miles… everything in my life turns bad. I don’t want… I don’t want to hurt any of you.”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” he pleads. “Skye, you’ve got a job here, and people who miss you. We _need_ you back here. Please. Please come home.”

Home. There’s a word she’s never used before. He’s saying it with such assuredness that she wants to cry. And she does, but she does it as silently as she can, so he can’t hear. She’s drunk, though, so he does.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Skye, I promise, it’s going to be okay if you just tell me where you are.”

Maybe he’s just sick of her bullshit. Maybe he's just desperate. She tries to believe that, tries to think that Grant just wants her back because she’s a great fuck, but all she can hear is him softly begging her to come back, because he _cares_ about her, like everyone else at that stupid little restaurant she loves with every fibre of her being.

“Don’t come after me,” she says.

“Please, Skye-”

“ _Don’t._ I’m not coming back. I… I can’t.”

“Skye-”

“Don’t you dare do this to me,” she snarls. She knows what she wants to say, but something else entirely is coming out of some dark, scared place inside her chest.

“ _Skye-_ “

“Fuck you,” she snaps. “I don’t care about you, or the others. I don’t care about Homeland.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

Tears are streaming down her face now, and maybe this is like throwing rocks at a puppy, but she can’t stop. She has to escape. She’s so glad she can’t see his face.

“You were just a fling, Ward. A one-night thing, just a fuck. And you were good. But I’m bored with all of you. So I’m not coming back.”

There is stunned silence on his end of the line.

“I know you’re scared,” he says softly. “I know this is new to you. Trust me, I feel the same way. I understand-”

“You don’t understand _anything,_ ” she hisses. She’s terrified, swiping at him over the distance between them. “What don’t you get? I’m. Not. Coming. Back.”

She hangs up and curls up in a ball, trying to protect herself from the guilt burning a hole through her chest. This is not how happy feels. This is as far away from happy as she could possibly be, and she’s put herself here. Again.

After almost an hour, she fumbles with her phone again. There’s only one thing she deserves now, only one thing that makes sense if she doesn’t have a job. She dials, and presses the phone to her ear.


	19. Santa Cruz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berta breaks down. So does Jemma. Skye is still running, and there's only one thing for Ward to do before it's too late.

Ward’s morning is slow. It’s hard for him to drag himself out of bed, and for once he decides to forgo the gym in favour of aimlessly tidying his apartment. As he’s straightening out the couch he finds a pair of panties that definitely don’t belong to him, and drops them in his laundry hamper. He is _not_ going to be the guy who sits around moping over women’s underwear. No way.

The day wastes away, and soon it’s time for work. Grant takes his bike, and arrives at Homeland in record time. He doesn’t realise he’s been speeding until he pulls up outside the restaurant and sees that his jacket has blown open. He shakes his head, wondering how one person could screw him up so much, and goes inside.

Fitz and Simmons are already in, as is Phil. Melinda arrives soon after Ward, and the team silently goes to work. Ward would never have guessed when Skye started that she would quickly become so integral to their little family, but without her, everyone seems lost. Even May has a slight frown on her face, and she isn’t trading playful insults with Phil, which is unnerving. Ward goes to set up the bar without being asked. It’s fairly clear from the call he received during the night that Skye isn’t coming back anytime soon, yet another thing he can blame himself for. He looks up after a while to find May watching him.

“What happened?” she asks, her voice unusually soft.

“Skye called last night,” he mutters. May straightens up, her frown deepening.

“And?”

Grant’s lips press together for a long moment. “She’s not coming back,” he says tightly. “She doesn’t… she’s moved on.”

Melinda looks like she’s about to say something, but a gurgling groan echoes through the restaurant before she can speak. There’s a shout from the kitchen, and the two of them hurry back to see what’s happened. Fitz is crouching in front of Berta, fiddling with the valves underneath the old dishwasher, while Jemma leans against the bench, watching her friend work with a slack look on her face.

“Did I just hear the dulcet tones of Berta giving up the ghost again?”

Phil has stuck his head into the kitchen, and looks to Fitz for a damage report. The engineering student rocks back on his heels, placing the access panel on the floor and looking up at his boss.

“I think it’s the heating element,” he says, apologetically. He glances at Jemma, who stares through him like he’s made of glass. “Could be the solenoid valve. I’m trying to start her up again like we usually do, but it’s not working.”

“Simmons?” May murmurs. Jemma has her arms wrapped around her torso like she’s been punched in the stomach. Fitz stands and puts a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, but she shrugs away from him angrily.

“She can’t break down,” she snaps. “Not now. We need her for tonight.”

“Jemma,” Fitz says, his voice soft.

“No!” Jemma says, her voice more urgent. “She can’t… she can’t just go, just like that, not… not when we’re not ready, not like that…”

Fitz is tugging on her shoulder now, trying to get her to move out of the kitchen with him, but Jemma is having none of it. She reaches out, and for a moment Grant is sure that she’s going to slap Fitz. Instead, her palm smacks against the dishwasher. Berta gives another groan, and there is a sputter from the machine as it dies properly.

“How could she?” Jemma murmurs. There are tears rolling down her face as Fitz slides an arm around her shoulders and pulls her towards the door, opening it into the night air and propelling her out. Ward watches as Phil aims a listless kick at the broken dishwasher.

“Guess we’re doing the dishes by hand tonight,” Phil sighs. Melinda looks at her ex-husband, and Grant has never seen her so close to actually showing an emotion before. She looks upset, if that’s even possible, and Phil just looks defeated.

Grant leans against the wall. Skye has done so much damage simply by leaving without saying goodbye. He can hear Jemma’s muffled crying through the door, and now May is crossing the kitchen to put a hand on Phil’s arm. None of them have closure on this. Skye has denied them that, because it never occurred to her that people might care enough about her to need it when she left.

He has to go after her, he realises. Hearing the muted sounds of Fitz trying to comfort Simmons, seeing Phil and Melinda at a loss like this, and feeling this gaping absence in his life – all of it leads him to the simple fact that he has to find Skye. For once in his life, he’s going to go after something he wants – someone he needs. They all need her.

“Phil,” he says, wondering how to communicate this epiphany to his boss.

“You have to go get her,” Phil says, running a hand over his face. At Grant’s surprised look, his boss gives a tired laugh that doesn’t sound like a laugh at all. “We’re her family, Grant,” he sighs. “She’s scared, and we need to help her. She needs us. We need her too. Go find her and bring her home.”

“The restaurant,” Grant protests, already reaching for his jacket.

“A lot of people owe me several huge favours,” Phil says. “I’ll find someone. Go.”

So Grant goes. He passes the kitchen hands on the steps outside, and it takes them about half a second to figure out what he’s doing. Jemma chases him down before he can get on his bike.

“Ward,” she says, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. He turns to her, and she hugs him. He wraps her up, realising that he’s never hugged her before, and then lets her go.

“Bring her back, okay?” Jemma mumbles, as Fitz arrives next to her. Grant nods, and squeezes her shoulder. He gets on his bike, and pulls out onto the road.

-

The drive to the airport takes him half an hour, and he’s pretty sure he terrifies the parking attendant with his urgency to ditch the bike. He walks through the sliding doors and all of a sudden it hits him that he has no idea where Skye is. He pulls out his phone.

He tries her three times before she picks up. It’s just gone seven, but he can hear thumping music in the background.

“Hello?”

There’s something about her voice that tugs at his heart, and he’s not sure if it’s because she sounds so sad or just because he’s crazy about her and he hasn’t heard her voice in ten hours. Before he can ruminate on how pathetic he is, she speaks again.

“Grant?”

There it is. That shiver.

“Skye,” he says, as gently as he can.

“I’m busy,” she snaps.

“Where are you?” he asks. She huffs, but he can hear footsteps down the line and the thudding music fades slightly.

“None of your business.”

“Where are you?” he presses, looking up at the departure boards. She can’t have driven too far.

“I told you to leave me alone,” she mutters. She’s still not hanging up, though, so Grant takes that as a good sign.

“Did you drive up the coast?” he asks. “Are you in San Francisco?”

“No.”

“Sacramento?”

“No.”

“Santa Cruz?”

“N-no.”

“Skye?” he demands, zeroing in.

“Don’t,” she murmurs. “Please don’t.”

“You’re in Santa Cruz?”

“Not for long.”

He doesn’t know if she’s bluffing, but he knows better than to call her on it. Before he can invent some way of extracting more information from her, she hangs up. Grant goes straight to the desk and buys a ticket for the next flight out. He’s in luck, and there’s a commuter flight leaving within an hour.

Everything seems to move agonisingly slowly once he has his ticket in his hand and he’s waiting for the flight to board. Once they finally call the flight, it takes every ounce of his willpower not to scream at the people trundling slowly aboard the plane. _Not for long._ Who knows how long he has to get to Skye before she slips through his fingers and disappears for good? He can’t let that happen.

The flight is an hour, but they seem to be in the air for days. Grant rushes out of the airport and is once again stopped by the fact that he has no idea where he’s going, or what to expect when he gets there. Once again, he has only one option.

This time she ignores his calls for half an hour before she finally picks up. It’s moving on towards ten, and when she answers the phone he can hear the ocean.

“Grant?”

Her voice is softer now.

“I’m in Santa Cruz.”

“What?”

She sounds genuinely surprised, and Grant finds himself staggered yet again by how little Skye seems to believe that other people care for her.

“I took a plane,” he says. “I’m here, now please tell me where you are.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says, her tone sharper.

“Skye,” he protests. “Please, I… I don’t know what else to do. Please just tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”

“I’m not yours to _come get,_ ” she retorts, but she doesn’t sound angry anymore. Just defeated. “It’s too late, anyway.”

His heart drops into his shoes. “You’ve left?”

“No,” she says. There’s a tremor in her voice that betrays something other than defiance and anger. “I’m still here. But it’s too late.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She hesitates. “I called Miles.”

Grant bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. “You called _Miles?_ Why?”

“Because it’s the only thing that makes sense now,” she mumbles.

“Skye,” Grant says, his voice strangled. “Miles _abused_ you. He _stalked_ you. How could you possibly think this is a good idea?”

“What do you know?” she snaps. “What do you know about any of this? Miles knows me. He’s never tried to… to suck me into some _family,_ somewhere I don’t belong-”

“You _do_ belong at Homeland,” Grant attempts.

“It’s already done,” she replies, heavily. “Miles is coming. I’m going to go back to Texas with him.”

“Skye-”

“Goodbye, Grant.”

She hangs up, and Grant is left standing outside the doors to Arrivals, staring up at the glowing _Welcome to Santa Cruz_ sign hanging over his head.


	20. I Need You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ward calls Skye again, and goes to find her. Skye and Ward finally talk in person, and Skye calls Miles.

The sign glows, the cabs rumble by, and Ward stands there with nothing but his phone in his hand and his wallet in his pocket. No part of this is good. He’s flown to Santa fucking Cruz, and now Skye’s called Miles and there’s no way for him to find where she is. The city seemed smaller when he was flying in over it, but now he is completely overwhelmed by the number of places he could look for her. There was music in the background of her call, so that narrows it down to thousands of clubs. By the time he’s done looking, Skye will be long gone. Miles is probably already on his way. At the thought of Skye’s ex-boyfriend, Ward’s fingers clench into a fist.

She’s going to go with him to Texas. He can’t quite believe. The memory of the night he found her in the bar is fresh in his mind, and he can see the bruises like she’s right in front of him. Miles _hurt_ her, he hurt Skye, and Grant can’t think of a person he hates more than anyone who could possibly hurt her.

He’s freaking out, he quickly realises. No one has ever made him feel like this. Then again, no one in his life has ever slept with him and then run away to Santa Cruz, so it’s kind of a new situation for him. But he knows, despite the fact that he’s been trying to deny it for months, that he has serious feelings for this girl. And it’s just the latest event in the string of ironic disasters that is his life that the first girl he’s ever had feelings like this for has now vanished. He runs a hand over his face, resisting the urge to sit down on the ground.

“You okay, buddy?” a man calls from his cab at the rank. Ward starts, and nods stiffly.

“You need a ride somewhere?” the man asks. Ward looks around, and shrugs. He might as well find somewhere to stay for a while. He walks up to the cab and gets in the passenger seat.

“You got any bags, buddy?”

He shakes his head, and the cab pulls away from the rank.

“Where you wanna go?”

“I need a… hotel,” Ward answers. “Nothing too fancy.”

“You got it,” the cabbie says.

Ward toys with his phone. He’s already coming apart at the seams, he might as well get his heart broken tonight. He calls Skye.

“What?” she asks, and he can hear that she’s been crying. He heard the same hoarse, defeated tone that night at Homeland, after Miles…

“I’m in a cab,” he says. “Please, Skye, I don’t know what else to do. Please.”

“You should go home,” she murmurs. Her voice is soft. Hesitant. Grant grasps at straws, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Just tell me you really want to go with Miles,” he says. “Tell me that you honestly think you’ll be happy with him, and I’ll go back to the airport and get on a plane and go home.”

“I…”

For a moment, he thinks she’s going to say it. He winces, resisting the urge to actually put a hand on his chest, like he can protect his heart from what’s about to happen.

“I don’t know what I want,” she says, and her sigh is a rush of static in his ear. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard all day.

“I’m not expecting anything from you,” he promises. “Skye, it’s fine if I’m not what you want. But we all need you at Homeland, and I just want you to be happy.”

Her silence isn’t quite as scary now as it seemed ten minutes ago. Grant finally feels like she’s thinking clearly about this. He hates himself for hoping that she’s remembering what Miles did to her.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says, finally.

“That’s okay,” he assures her. “But you know that you want to be safe, and you’re not going to be safe with Miles.”

“I know,” she admits. He feels like punching the air.

“What do you want right now?” he asks her. The pause seems to go on forever.

“Come find me,” she says, at last. Ward smiles, and he’s sure he’s scaring the cab driver at this point.

“Okay,” he says, nodding even though she can’t see him.

“I’m on West Cliff Drive,” she says, after a pause. “I don’t know where, exactly. The wharf’s to my left.”

Ward relays the instructions to the cabbie and he switches lanes.

“I’m on my way,” he promises. Skye hangs up.

-

She’s a mess. That’s really all Skye knows right now. She’s sitting on the end of the little pier, barefoot and staring at the blinking light on the end of the wharf.

Ward is coming to get her. The thought of him flying up just to fetch her… she doesn’t know how she feels about that. Or maybe she does, but she’s got too good at lying to herself. She stares down at the water, and thinks that it’s probably the second option.

She knows she has to call Miles. Otherwise, he’s going to fly to Santa Cruz, and though God knows he deserves a trip out here for nothing, he needs to hear that they’re over, for good. And they are, this time, because Skye is slowly realising that what she feels for Grant is stronger than anything she’s run away from in the past. There are feelings there that she’s never felt before. It’s brand new territory, and maybe this is the one relationship in her life that will actually survive her plethora of abandonment issues.

The more she thinks about Homeland and everything she’s left behind, the more she’s insanely thankful that Grant has come running after her. She still can’t quite grasp the concept of someone caring about her that much, but hopefully she still has time. Hopefully.

When she hears a car pull up at the end of the pier, she doesn’t turn around. She won’t be able to take it if it’s anyone but Grant, and suddenly she’s too afraid to look. She feels footsteps through the beams underneath her, and suddenly there’s someone standing behind her. She turns her head at last and looks up at him, then climbs stiffly to her feet. He’s standing in front of her, despite all the distance she’s tried to put between them, and before she can stop herself, Skye bursts into tears.

Grant immediately wraps his arms around her, pulling her tight against him. Skye sobs into his chest and he rakes his fingers gently through her hair, silent for the time being.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, when she finally finds it in her to pull away. “I fucked up, I’m sorry, Grant, I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve run away from things that scare me,” he assures her, cupping her cheek with a warm hand. “It’s okay not to know what you want, or what you need, but I can tell you what everyone at Homeland needs. We need you. In whatever way you want to be there, we need you. Phil would do anything to get you back right now, including sending an emotionally stunted waiter with no people skills to get you back.”

Skye has to laugh through her tears, and she grips his shirt in her tired fingers.

“Will they forgive me?” she whispers.

“Of course they will,” he replies.

“Will you?”

He is silent for a moment, and fear seizes her. What if he says no? What happens then? But he’s still holding her, still stroking her back idly, and she tries to remember every nice thing Grant has ever said to her, just in case.

“Skye,” he begins. Good start. “Pretty much everything about my life before Homeland was shit. Even when I started working for Phil, I didn’t feel happy. I thought there was something wrong with me, like my wiring was all messed up or something.”

He cups her cheeks again, and Skye feels her face being lifted a little so she has to look at him. “Now you’re in my life, and you make me happy. I don’t care if you don’t want to date me, if you never want to have sex again, if you don’t even want to talk to me, I just want you in my life. And I’ve seen how important you are to everyone else at Homeland. They need you. I need you.”

Skye lets him take a breath before she kisses him. It’s not desperate, or demanding. It’s just soft, and thankful. She can’t quite believe that there’s no anger, no raised hands. There’s only Grant, telling her that there are people who love her and need her, who are waiting for her with open arms. For the first time in her life, Skye is sure that she has a home to go back to, and it’s not the van parked at the end of the pier.

“Okay,” she says, after she pulls back. Grant looks like he’s been thrown off by the kiss, because it takes him a few moments to respond.

“Okay?” he repeats. “As in… you’ll come back?”

She nods, and the smile that spreads across his face is the best thing she’s seen in a long time.

“Thank you,” she whispers. For a long moment, she stands there with her arms around him, just marvelling at how lucky she is. Then her face falls. She feels Grant tense up instantly.

“What?” he murmurs. “What is it?”

“Miles,” she whispers. Panic rises into her throat again. “Miles… Shit, what do I do? I already called him, he thinks I want to go to Texas… Fuck.”

Ward clasps her shoulder. “Call him,” he says softly. “Call him and tell him you’ve changed your mind. Then delete his number.”

She nods slowly, and pulls out her phone. Miles’ contact is daunting on the glowing screen, but she presses it, Grant’s closeness giving her courage.

“Hey, baby,” Miles answers, when he picks up the phone. “I’m on my way to the airport, just sit tight. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Don’t come.”

She can hear the silence between them. It crackles with anger.

“What?”

There it is. Skye’s glad that there are thousands of miles between the two of them. She can almost sense Miles gripping the phone too tight. She can see his jaw clenching.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Skye?” he snaps. Ward tenses. Skye guesses he can hear the tone.

“What game are you playing?” Miles goes on. “You called me a few hours ago and said you wanted me to bring you back to Texas. Or am I imagining that?”

“I’m not coming to Texas, Miles,” she says, her voice gaining strength. “I was drunk, and I forgot for a few seconds that you’re an abusive asshole stalker.”

“It’s that fucking waiter, isn’t it?” Miles demands. “He got to you. You’re really listening to him? I’ll bet he’s spouting all sorts of crap about being in love with you, and how he _needs_ you, all that bullshit. Like anyone could love you.”

Skye cringes, and Grant clearly heard that last line, because his arms around her have tightened, and he’s tracing patterns on the small of her back with his agitated fingers.

“He likes me,” she tells Miles, firmly. “And he’s never hit me, so he’s got that going for him. I’ve got a place I belong, Miles. At least _try_ to be happy for me.”

“You don’t belong anywhere, you crazy bitch,” Miles spits down the line. “You’ll never belong anywhere. You’ll never find anyone who loves you-”

“Bye, Miles,” she says, a little sadly. “We won’t be seeing each other again.”

He’s still shouting when she hangs up the phone. She looks at it for a moment, and then at Grant. He looks ready to fly down to Austin and beat the shit out of Miles himself, so Skye takes a breath and pulls away from him, turning to fling her phone into the ocean. She watches as it arcs into the air, and splashes down into the dark water.

Skye turns to Grant, and before she can say anything, he kisses her again.

“My van,” she says weakly, when she manages to pull herself away.

“I’ll drive,” he says. “We can get some of the way there tonight, and keep going in the morning."

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you, Grant.”

“Thank you,” he replies, as he walks her down the pier. Skye leans into him, savouring his warmth. “Thank you for not leaving,” he murmurs.

She unlocks the van, and he helps her in. Skye hands him the keys, and within five minutes, they are on the road south. Another ten minutes, and Skye is asleep in the passenger seat. Grant gropes behind him for a blanket and drapes it over her, then continues on with the drive home.


	21. Out of the Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone shows up from the past that Grant would rather forget. Skye is welcomed back at Homeland. Grant isn't as happy as he should be.

Grant parks the van outside his apartment and sags into the seat. Home. He’s made it all the way home, and Skye is still here. He glances at her. They talked on the way back, filling in the hours with idle chatter, avoiding the real issues for the time being. Grant knows they’ll have to talk properly soon, but now isn’t the time. They both need sleep, and a bit of time together before they can start to have those conversations.

She’s asleep again, and he turns off the engine and takes a few moments just to watch her. She’s so fucking beautiful, even with her mouth slightly open and her hair all over the place. He huffs quietly, and gets out of the car.

Carrying her up to his apartment is easy. Opening the door isn’t, but he doesn’t want to wake her up, so he manoeuvres inside with her in his arms and walks her to his room. He takes off her jacket and shoes, and tucks her into bed. She shifts, and then settles. He smiles. Damn it.

“You’re killing me,” he whispers, smiling and shaking his head. He ducks down and kisses her forehead. She’s a force of nature, this woman, and yet somehow she’s still here with him. Why? What has he ever done to deserve someone like this in his life? He sighs, and heads to the kitchen to get some water.

The sun is setting. It’s still early in the evening, but Grant is exhausted from the trip. He pulls out his phone to send Phil a text, but freezes in the doorway to the lounge when he sees something move in the shadows.

“She’s pretty,” a voice drawls. A man steps into the light of the window, and Grant’s jaw clenches instinctively.

“What are you doing here, John?” he asks, one hand gripping the doorframe.

John Garrett smiles at him. “I came to say hello,” he said, smiling like a doting uncle. It makes Grant feel sick. “And to ask for a favour.”

Grant’s lips twitch. “I don’t think so,” he says, but all of a sudden his tone is wavering, and Garrett can hear it.

“Nothing big, of course,” the man shrugs, innocently. “Just a couple of jobs here and there while I’m in town.” He looks Grant up and down. “You’re much bulkier than when I last saw you. That’ll come in handy.”

Grant is breathing through his nose, and he tries to relax. Garrett can always tell when he’s stressed.

“I don’t do that stuff anymore,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I work for Phil now. He’s a great guy. I _like_ Homeland. Everything else is behind me.”

“No it’s not,” Garrett scoffs. “I know you, Grant, you can’t just put things like that behind you. You let them fuel you. I guess you’re wasting all that on trying to be a better person, but I can fix that.”

“You need to go,” Grant says, trying to make it sound like he has a choice in the matter.

“And you need to think,” Garrett snaps. “Come on, Grant. The girl in your bedroom? Didn’t I teach you better than that?”

“You don’t even know who she is,” Grant growls.

“I don’t need to,” Garret replies, his hands still in his pockets. “I saw the way you looked at her when you carried her in. She’s a-”

“She’s not a weakness,” Grant snaps. He can hear the anger in his own voice, and Garrett grins triumphantly.

“Sure she isn’t,” he says. “Look, kid, you know I hate threats, and I especially hate having to use them against my own people, but that girl looks mighty breakable. You might want to think about that before you say no to me.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ward says, his voice quiet and angry.

“Call you what?” Garrett asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“I’m not ‘your own people’. I’m not one of yours anymore.” He takes a breath. “I work for Phil. He’s a good boss.”

Garrett laughs, and the sound stabs through Grant’s head straight into the dark place where he shoves his worst memories. He wants the man in front of him out of his home. The whole room seems smaller, every exit blocked by the sound of John Garrett laughing at him.

“That’s funny,” the man says, shaking his head. “Because I remember you saying you owed me your life for everything I taught you. You said you’d do everything you could to repay me for saving your sorry ass in Colorado. And now you’re loyal to some guy who owns a restaurant? That’s sweet, it really is.”

Grant can’t help it. He glances at the door to his bedroom.

“Ah,” Garrett nods. “It’s her, isn’t it? The girl.”

Grant says nothing. His fists are clenched so tight that his knuckles have gone completely white.

“That’s okay,” Garrett shrugs. “That’s just another weakness. You have so many, I don’t need to ask if I’m going to get what I want. You and I both know I will.”

“Get out,” Grant says, through his teeth. Garrett smiles, and it makes Grant want to kill him.

Garrett looks at him for another long moment, and then leaves. When the door closes, Grant sags against the wall, closing his eyes. This isn’t happening. Garrett can’t be back in his life, not now, not when everything is going well.

“Grant?”

He jumps, and turns around. Skye is standing in the doorway, a sleepy smile on her face.

“Hey,” he says, letting a smile drop over his face.

“Come to bed,” she murmurs, crossing over to him and tugging on his sleeve. He smiles, and lets her tow him into the bedroom, where he kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed with her. She snuggles up to him and he wraps his arms around her, his eyes still wide open. He’s exhausted, but he can’t sleep. As Skye drifts off, he lies awake with his arms around her, wondering just how long his past is going to stay a secret. He looks down at Skye, and knows that the answer is not long.

-

When Ward pushes open the door to Homeland the next afternoon, he realises that he never sent that text to Phil. The others don’t know that he’s got Skye, or that he’s even back. He sighs, and resigns himself to a long berating from everyone.

Skye follows him in, and they walk into the kitchen. Jemma is standing at the sink with a plate, and she turns to see who it is. When she sees Ward, with Skye behind him, she gasps, and the plate slips out of her hands. It cracks on the floor, but Jemma is already shoving her way past Grant to fling her arms around her friend.

“Hey, Jemma,” Skye says, wrapping her arms around the student.

“Where _were_ you?” Jemma demands, burying her face in Skye’s shoulder. Grant hates the guilty look on Skye’s face, and inwardly kicks himself for not letting the team know that she was safe.

“I’m sorry,” Skye murmurs, rubbing Jemma’s back with both hands. “Jemma, I’m so sorry.”

Fitz appears in the doorway, looking worried, but his expression clears when he sees Skye standing there, with Jemma clinging onto her like a limpet. Fitz bounds across the room and hugs Skye, catching Jemma in his arms as well. Skye laughs, and Ward watches with a smile as the two kitchen hands hug their friend tightly. Eventually, Fitz pries a sniffling Jemma off Skye, squeezing her shoulders as he does so. Skye raises an eyebrow but Fitz ignores her, leading Jemma away.

“Skye?”

Phil has appeared behind them to check what all the noise is about, with Melinda right behind him. Skye turns, and bites her lip. She moves quickly over to her boss and hugs him tightly. Melinda’s hand lands on her back and Grant’s smile only widens. It’s good to see Skye getting the treatment she deserves for once. Phil surreptitiously scrubs at his eyes, and coughs. Melinda gives a soft laugh and returns to the stovetop. Phil looks Skye up and down.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” she nods. “A little tired, but I’m fine.”

He smiles, and squeezes her hands. “On the bar then, Skye. It’s good to have you back.”

She hugs him again, and smiles at Grant before she moves towards the bar. Fitz and Simmons have already gravitated after her, and Grant’s smile won’t go away as he sets up the dining room. They open for business, and soon Skye’s regulars are appearing, every one of them leaning over the bar to hug her or shake her hand. She’s glowing, and Grant stops in the doorway every so often to watch her for a moment, because she’s so fucking beautiful like this. She’s happy. He loves it. Loves her. He blinks. Wait. He loves her? He has to lean against the doorway when she looks up and smiles at him, because yes, he loves her. It’s new. It’s scary. He doesn’t know what to do. He smiles, and escapes into the dining room again.

-

“I shouldn’t have left.”

Grant is wiping down the barstools when Skye speaks. They’ve been working in silence for a while.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Come on, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know what to do.”

She blushes. “I thought it was the right thing. I guess because I always do it. Run away.”

He shakes his head, and reaches across the bar to catch her fingers. “You’re back now. That’s what matters, okay?”

She smiles at him, shaking her head. “You’re a ridiculously good person, you know that?” she says softly. Grant thinks of the night before, and his stomach twists.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she chides. “I don’t mean good in the lame way. Noble and heroic. I mean you are. But you’re a good guy. A properly good guy. I…” She trails off, blushing again. “I don’t mean…”

Grant just laughs, and swings around to the other side of the bar so he can catch her and kiss her. She kisses him back, and then goes back to wiping glasses, a smile on her face.

“Get a _room._ ”

Grant swivels to grin at Fitz. “We had a room. You’re the one who came into it.”

Fitz rolls his eyes. “Dinner’s ready,” he says.

Skye flicks off the bar lights, and squeezes Grant’s hand. “Can I stay at your place tonight?” she asks. The shyness in her tone makes him want to pick her up and hug her close.

“Of course you can,” he murmurs, smiling at her. “You don’t have to ask, you know.”

She flushes, and nudges him as they walk to dinner together. When they reach the table, Grant stops walking. In the doorway to the kitchen, Phil and Melinda are talking to someone all too familiar.

“Grant,” Phil calls. “Look who showed up out of the blue.”

“Hey, John,” Grant says, trying to make it sound like he’s happy to see the man who broke into his house the night before. Garrett smiles at him, and then turns his gaze on Skye. Grant takes her hand firmly, and tugs her over to the table. He sits, and he can feel Garret’s gaze on both of them as he eats, not tasting the food in his mouth. Behind him, Garret smiles.


	22. Hovering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another new face arrives at Homeland. Jemma is smitten. Fitz doesn't know what to think anymore.

“I’m just saying, he’s been acting weird since he and Skye got back.”

Fitz rolls his eyes for the fourth time. “If you mean different, I agree. And it’s probably because he and Skye worked things out. Simple.”

“No, not _different,_ ” she sighs, as she stacks dry plates on the counter. “I mean weird. And not in a good way. He’s so edgy all of a sudden.”

“Maybe you’re imagining it,” Fitz shrugs.

Jemma huffs, and shifts the stack of plates to make room for a new stack. “I’m not imagining it. I think it has something to do with that guy who’s been hanging around for the last few days.”

“That Garrett guy?” Fitz asks. “He seems nice enough. May and Phil like him, so he can’t be that bad, right?”

Jemma sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t know. There’s something-”

She is interrupted by a knock on the door. A strange face pops around the corner, and Fitz blinks.

“Can we help you?” Jemma asks. The stranger smiles, and enters the kitchen completely. Fitz blinks again. The man in front of them is tall, and his muscles are all too visible under his shirt, and Fitz thinks he can see them shifting under the man’s dark skin. Jemma has been struck dumb, and as Fitz glances at the rapt expression on her face, he feels the faintest twinge of jealousy.

“I’m Trip,” the man says offering his hand to Jemma. She blushes, and shakes it. Fitz goes next, and yep, the man’s grip is firm and confident. Jemma’s cheeks are still red.

“Coulson sent me in to have a look at the dishwasher,” Trip says, glancing over at it. “Said it broke down a few nights back.”

“Fitz already tried to fix it,” Jemma explains, glancing at her partner. Fitz is relieved that she hasn’t forgotten his existence entirely.

“I’m pretty good with these things,” Trip smiles. Fitz’s fingers twitch. “I’ll have a look at it, see what I can do.”

He winks at Jemma, who bites her lip and blushes again. Fitz wonders if there’s a way he can throw a plate at the man’s head and make it look like an accident. He comes up blank, and goes back to scrubbing plates clean, a little more aggressively than is strictly necessary.

Trip is under the dishwasher when Garrett walks past the kitchen with Phil. They are chatting amicably, as they have been every time Fitz has seen them in the last couple of days. As far as he can tell, Garrett is an old friend of Phil’s. From where, he has no idea. Could be anywhere. Fitz has realised he doesn’t really know that much about his bosses. They’re not really the sharing type. May’s only really opened up a little more since Skye got stabbed. In a slightly morbid way, that brought them all closer together. Even Ward has changed for the better, though if Fitz is honest with himself, Jemma might be right. The waiter has been acting slightly oddly in the last few days. Fitz chalks it up to the fact that the guy has probably never been in a relationship that’s lasted this long. Something the two of them have in common, in fact.

His attention turns to Jemma as they continue to dry the dishes. They’ve been hovering around each other in the last couple of months. Skye’s nudged him a few times towards actually saying something to Jemma about his feelings, but he knows for a fact he’s not brave enough. Another factor, one that’s looming much larger now that he’s watching her throw the occasional glance at the stupidly attractive man tinkering with their dishwasher, is that he has no idea if she feels the same way. They’ve been friends for what feels like forever. They’re as similar as it’s possible for two people to be. But perhaps she just doesn’t feel that way for him.

In any case, her glances at Trip are causing a nasty burning sensation in his throat, and he picks up a stack of plates and takes them to the dining room just to get away from the pair of them.

Ward is packing up. They’re all but done for the night, and Fitz can smell May cooking their meals in the kitchen. Fitz sets the plates down with a clatter, and frowns as Ward jumps.

“You okay?” he asks the waiter. It feels weird to be asking Ward a question like that. He and Fitz barely used to talk, and they’re not exactly best friends. Ward is older than he is, and Fitz always gets the feeling that the waiter thinks he’s just a kid.

“Sure,” Ward grunts, turning back to the table he’s been wiping.

“Jemma thinks you’ve been acting a little strangely,” Fitz ventures. Ward turns around, exasperated, but Fitz does his best to keep the man’s gaze, thinking of Jemma and bravery and several other things all at once.

“I’m fine,” Ward says. Fitz knows he’s lying. What he doesn’t know is how to call him out on it, or why Ward would lie in the first place. Something is making the man very edgy, and Fitz doesn’t like being out of the loop.

“Well, if you ever want to talk,” Fitz mumbles, lamely. Ward nods curtly and goes back to the table. Fitz meanders into the kitchen, feeling rather like he’s being bounced back and forth between people who don’t really want to talk to him. For the first time in almost a month, he feels homesick.

“Everything okay?”

It’s May. He’s wandered into the kitchen without realising it.

“I’m not really sure,” he sighs. “Maybe I’m tired.”

She stirs the pasta in the pan in front of her, watching him. “How’s Jemma?”

Damn it. Does everyone in this restaurant know how he feels? His frustration is clearly evident in his face, because May laughs softly.

“I’m not blind, Fitz,” she says, turning back to the pasta. “How are you holding up?”

“Same as ever,” he sighs. “I don’t know how to talk to her about how I feel.”

“I know how you feel,” she says. “Trust me.”

It doesn’t exactly make him feel better. He just feels lost.

“We spent a lot of time together when Skye was in the hospital, and then again when she vanished. It’s like… it’s like she only needs me when she wants comfort.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out bitterly, but there’s a sour taste in his mouth as he says it. May shakes her head.

“I don’t think that’s true,” she says. Her voice is oddly soft. “I think you’re both young- and don’t give me that look, you’re only twenty. You’re both young, and you’ve both been through a lot in the last couple of months. You’re both a long way from home, and you need each other for more than just comfort. You’ll work things out, Fitz, I promise. It’s not life or death here, it’s just confusing. It’ll be okay.”

He nods slowly. She’s right. He shouldn’t be catastrophising. At least it wasn’t Jemma who got stabbed. Even as he thinks it, he feels bad, but he knows he wouldn’t have coped with his best friend being hurt like that.

“I should talk to her, shouldn’t I?” he murmurs. May nods, without looking up from the stovetop. Fitz heaves a sigh, and tries to force his mind into a place where he doesn’t feel that looming sense of dread at the prospect of talking to Jemma about his feelings.

He trudges out of the kitchen. Homeland is strangely quiet. He can hear soft voices talking, probably Phil and Garrett, but that’s it. The clattering of dishes has stopped, and when he walks into the rear kitchen area, drawing a steadying breath to prop himself up, his stomach drops.

Jemma’s leaning against the bench, laughing. Trip is wiping his hands on a rag, and behind them, Berta’s lights are back on. He’s got the dishwasher working again, but that’s not even the worst part of the tableau in front of Fitz.

“Come on,” Trip is saying, grinning at Jemma. There is a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. “You have to admit it.”

“Fine,” Jemma laughs. “You’re the best. I admit it. Well done.”

He grins, and Jemma shyly reaches out to wipe a smudge of dust off his cheek. Trip laughs, and Jemma’s cheeks colour. Fitz hovers in the doorway, his stomach tying itself into knots.

“I believe we had a bet,” the man says. Even his voice is attractive. Fitz is frozen where he stands as Jemma smiles, and pulls a pen from her apron pocket. She grabs a napkin and writes on it, folding it in half and handing it to Trip.

“One phone number, as promised,” she says, still smiling shyly at him. “Use it wisely.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Trip smiles. He kisses her hand and Fitz rolls his eyes. Who the hell kisses people’s hands? Trip finishes wiping his hands and tosses the rag into the bin. He spots Fitz.

“Hey, man,” he says, smiling. He’s being completely friendly, and Fitz still wants to smack him in the face. “Got your machine working again. My girl here says you’re a bit of a whiz with this stuff.”

“I’m an engineering student,” Fitz mutters stiffly, trying not to protest the man’s use of the phrase ‘my girl’. Trip beams, and it’s a challenge not to smile back. He’s stupidly charming. Fitz endures a clap on the shoulder as Trip moves past him.

“Good on you, man,” he says. “Alright, I’ll see you round. And you,” he continues, grinning back at Jemma, whose entire face is flushed now. “You’ll be hearing from me,” he smiles. “There’s a nice restaurant I’ve been dying to take a beautiful girl to. I think you’ll like it. I’ll catch you.”

He leaves the kitchen and Jemma sags against the bench, the most beautiful smile on her face. She fans herself as Fitz moves in to examine Berta. She’s up and running again. He kicks the bottom of the machine gently.

“Isn’t he great?” Jemma sighs, as she turns to wipe the bench down. Fitz makes a non-committal noise. She catches it and rolls her eyes.

“Oh come on, Fitz,” she says. “Really, don’t get all huffy just because he fixed Berta when you couldn’t.”

“I’m not getting _huffy,_ ” Fitz snaps. Jemma recoils slightly at his tone and he ignores it, moving to grab his bag. “May’s got dinner on, by the way.”

He walks out of the kitchen, leaving his bewildered friend behind him. He knows he’s being kind of childish, but he’s hurting. Seeing Jemma so happy talking to someone else shouldn’t make him so angry. If he’s honest, he’s angry because he knows he’d never be confident enough to act like that. He’ll never make her blush like that, or smile like that. He’s not like Trip. His anger quickly dies away to a mopey self-loathing, and he sits down at the table with no appetite. Ward and Skye have forgone dinner, obviously choosing instead to head back to Ward’s apartment to do unspeakable things to each other. May, Phil and Garrett are chatting quietly, and Jemma eventually sits down next to Fitz and eats.

When they’re all cleaned up, Fitz and Jemma start the walk back to the college dorms.

“What was all that about?” she asks quietly, a few blocks from home.

“All what?” Fitz yawns.

“You know what I’m talking about, Fitz,” she says, her voice firm. “You were out of it tonight, and you got so snappy when Trip-”

“Would you shut up about Trip?” he snarls, rounding on her. She falters. He’s never told her to shut up.

“Fitz, what’s the matter with you?” she asks, her voice wavering. “You only just met the guy today, I don’t understand why you’re so-”

“Exactly,” Fitz says curtly, upping the pace as they walk towards the dorms. Jemma has to hurry to keep up with him. “We only met him today.”

“Is this about me giving him my phone number?” Jemma demands. “Because you have no right to get upset about that.”

“I’m not _upset.”_

“You obviously are,” she retorts. “Are you jealous?”

“I just don’t see why you were so keen on him five seconds after he walked into the restaurant when we…” Fitz trails off, his cheeks flushing faintly.

“When we what?” Jemma asks. The dorm buildings are looming in front of them. “Fitz?”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Go out with him. I don’t care.”

“Don’t you?” she asks, catching him by the shoulder. He shrugs her off.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters again. “I’m sorry, Jem. I shouldn’t have… it’s none of my business who you date. I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Fitz…”

He just shakes his head again and hurries off towards his building, swiping himself in and kicking the door shut behind him. He waits until he’s back in the sanctuary of his own room, and then lashes out, kicking out at his desk chair. All he gets for his trouble is a bruised foot and tears in his eyes. He tells himself that they’re because of the pain in his foot and curls up in bed. Sleep takes him into dreams he shouldn’t be having, but for a few hours at least, he forgets everything that’s wrong in his life.


	23. Lost kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye wants to know more about John Garrett and why he's making Grant act so strangely. May tells her some history. Skye and Garrett talk. Grant doesn't like where all this is going.

Skye is at the bar when Garrett swings in for a drink. He seems nice enough, and Phil certainly likes him. Even May seems to be getting along with the man, and that’s more than enough for Skye to greet him with a smile.

“Could I grab a scotch, darl?” he asks, after waiting for her to finish serving another patron. “Oh, and one for Phil, if you don’t mind.”

“Phil doesn’t drink on shift,” Skye says, raising an eyebrow and placing one glass on the counter.

“He does when I’m in town,” Garrett chuckles. “I promise to protect his dignity as well as I can.”

She laughs, and sets another glass on the bar, pouring two scotches. She waves off his attempt to pay.

“A friend of Phil’s is a friend of mine,” she smiles. He shakes his head with a grin on his face, and drops the fifty in his hand into her tip jar. She gapes at him, but he just sweeps up the two glasses and makes for the kitchen. Skye is still staring after him when Grant appears at the bar.

“Are you okay?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. He’s been edgy for days now. Skye keeps meaning to ask him about it.

“Fine,” she nods. “Garrett just gave me a fifty dollar tip. What the hell does he do for a living, anyway?”

Grant shrugs, but his eyes flicker over to the tip jar. “He’s old money. Sort of.”

“Who is he, though?” she asks, leaning on the bar. “Did he know Phil before Homeland? Did he meet May when she and Phil were married?”

“It’s all complicated,” Grant says, brushing off her questions. “I have to go.”

“Grant,” she protests, but he’s already gone. Skye huffs, and turns her attention back to her patrons as best she can with her mind still on the mysteries surrounding this new stranger.

When Jemma comes in to trade a tray of dirty glasses for clean ones, Skye remembers the other new face in the restaurant.

“So how’s Trip?” she asks. The kitchen hand flushes bright red, which is answer enough to her question, but Skye presses on. “I heard you gave him your number.”

“Did Fitz tell you that, by any chance?” Jemma asks, slightly bitterly. “You mustn’t listen to him, Trip’s a lovely man-”

“I know he is, I’ve met him,” Skye interrupts. “What’s going on with you and Fitz tonight? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re avoiding each other.”

“I’d better get back to it,” Jemma mutters, grabbing the tray of dirty glasses and fleeing the bar. Skye sighs, kicking the baseboard at her feet in frustration. Everyone seems set on keeping secrets. The best she can do is listen to Terry down the bar talk about his new niece and try her best to act like her mind isn’t miles away.

The night is slow, and Skye doesn’t see her co-workers until she’s heaving the stools back so she can mop underneath. She can hear Phil talking in the kitchen. Probably to Garrett. The two seem to have done nothing but talk since the other man arrived here, and Skye is desperately curious to find out more. She doesn’t like not knowing, and everyone else appears to be more than happy to keep her in the dark at every turn.

“Need any help before I start dinner?” May asks, poking her head into the bar. Skye looks up as she drags back another heavy stool and smiles wearily.

“The bar needs a wipe down, if you don’t mind,” she says. May nods, and moves in behind the bar to start organising and cleaning.

“So who is he?” Skye asks. May clearly knows who she’s talking about, but she’s quiet for a moment. Skye is sure she’s about to get stonewalled again, but May starts talking.

“He was a friend of Phil’s before I met either of them,” she says, as she wipes down the sink. “They were friends in high school, and they went to college together. I met Phil while he was still at college, and I met John not very long after Phil. They did everything together.”

Skye’s new question goes unasked as Melinda continues.

“They had plans to start up a business together,” May says, and Skye looks up to catch her smiling at the sponge in her hand. “A restaurant, when they were both about three years out of college. They were even looking at buildings to buy, but John’s parents died suddenly in an accident. John went home to deal with things, Phil and I got married, and we didn’t see him for a long time.”

Skye is quiet, leaning against a barstool. “That’s awful,” she murmurs. May nods.

“It was. He was in a bad way for a long time, vanishing off the face of the earth now and then. Phil thinks he went up to Canada to get away from things. We saw him occasionally at the holidays, if he didn’t have anywhere to go. In the meantime, Phil and I worked for different places and after about four years we bought this place. Then the divorce came, but we kept at it. Then six years ago, Garrett showed up out of nowhere. He looked good, seemed happier than we’d seen him in years. And he had Grant with him.”

“Grant?” Skye asks. “Garrett brought him to you?”

“I assume Grant’s told you a little about his childhood,” May says, her voice darkening slightly. “About what happened to his brother, and afterwards.”

Skye nods. “He ran away. He said a friend of Phil’s brought him here… that was Garrett?”

May nods. “When we first met Grant, he had that same look about him as John had had just after his parents died. So we took him in and looked after him. John had done as good a job as he could trying to look after Grant and get him back on track, but Grant needed somewhere stable. A home.”

“So why won’t Grant talk about him?” Skye asks. She’s given up any pretence of cleaning now, and May is finishing up behind the bar. “He sounds like a good guy. I mean, a good guy that bad things happened to, but it sounds like the two of them were close for a while.”

“I don’t blame Grant for not wanting to think about that part of his life,” May shrugs. “We’ve all got things we’d rather forget. I should start on dinner.”

May leaves, glancing at Skye, who is pretty sure she’s just heard more words out of her boss in one go than she’s ever heard all together. Something about traumatic pasts sure seems to make people want to talk. Skye leans against the bar and looks up as someone else comes in.

“My ears were burning,” Garrett says, smiling at her. “So Mel told you my sad, sad story, huh?”

Skye flushes. “Sorry. I’m kind of nosey when it comes to people.”

Garrett chuckles. “It’s alright. Shitty things have happened to me. People get curious. I don’t blame you.”

She flushes again, and he comes over to sit on a bar stool. “Ah,” he says, softly, cocking his head. “So you’re one of the few who’s not so interested in the dead parents sob story. You want to know about Grant.”

She bites her lip, and he shakes his head, smiling. “It’s okay. Skye, right? I get it. Grant likes to lock things up. Doesn’t make him much of a sharer, really. He’s always been like that.”

“He doesn’t seem to want to talk about you,” she sighs. “I guess… well, May told me you were the one who brought him here, and I was just curious.”

“The kid had been living rough for a while when I found him,” Garrett shrugs. “There were times he didn’t want to listen to me. There were times I had to tell him that he had to start living by the law if he didn’t want to end up dead or in a juvie hall for the rest of his life.”

“He said he ran errands for people for a while,” she says, her voice quiet. “I thought it meant-”

“What it meant,” Garrett interrupts gently, “is that he didn’t have much choice in the matter. He worked for money to keep himself alive, like anyone would do in a situation like that. I picked him up when he tried to steal my wallet. He’s grateful I saved his life, but me being around like this reminds him of the life he lived for a long time.”

Garrett sighs, and Skye tilts her head. He almost looks upset.

“Guess I won’t hang around too much longer,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not good for that kid.”

“You saved him,” Skye says quietly. “You shouldn’t leave so soon.”

“Now don’t go feeling all sorry for me,” Garrett chuckles. “I fixed my life right up. I’m fine. It’s Grant you should focus on now. I’ve seen him wandering around here, when he forgets to avoid me. He’s not right at the moment.”

“He has been acting kind of strangely,” Skye admits. “Like he’s edgy.”

“That’s probably got something to do with me,” Garrett sighs. “But just watch out for him, okay? I’m glad he’s got someone like you to look after him.”

Skye smiles, and reaches out to squeeze Garrett’s hand. “I won’t give up on him.”

Garrett gives her a smile, and she’s sure there are tears in his eyes.

“You’re something special, you know that?” he asks.

Skye shrugs. “We’re not so different, me and him. I ran away too. Wish I’d had someone like you to look out for me, though.”

Garrett leans forward, his eyes sparking with interest. “I should have known. Lost kids gravitate towards each other, in my experience.”

“Well, that’s me,” she sighs.

“Orphanage?” Garrett guesses. Skye nods.

“Nuns,” she explains. Garret sucks his teeth, and she laughs. “It wasn’t so bad, really. But all I wanted was to find out who my parents were.”

“So the nuns called you Skye?” he asks, leaning an elbow on the bar.

“No,” she laughs. “No, they called me Mary Sue.”

“Doesn’t suit you,” Garrett smiles. She shakes her head.

“I never got adopted out,” she sighs. “I kept thinking it would happen, that the next foster home would be the one that stuck, but I just bounced from family to family until I got old enough to make the foster fathers uncomfortable. A creepy uncle at a family function tried it on and I kicked him in the nuts, and that was the end of the foster families. I left when I was eighteen, spent all my money on a van and a laptop, and wandered around as a roving IT consultant. I just fell into bartending after a while.”

Garrett is listening with rapt attention, and Skye gets the sudden unsettling feeling that he’s memorising every word she’s saying.

“Skye?”

She turns, and Grant’s standing in the doorway.

“Hey, son,” Garrett says, his voice husky. “Care to join us?”

“Don’t call me that,” Grant snaps, moving over to stand by Skye. “What did you say to her?” Skye glares at him.

“We were just talking, Grant,” she says, nudging him in the stomach with her elbow.

“Skye here wanted to know about you,” Garrett says. “And she told me a bit about herself.”

“What did you tell him?” Grant asks, sharply. His hand lands on her shoulder and she winces at his grip.

“Just some stuff about the orphanage, Grant,” she says, sliding off the stool.

“Leave her alone,” Grant says to Garrett, his voice dark. Garrett blinks, glances at Skye, and stands up.

“Alright, kiddo,” he says, his voice soft and hurt. “Alright.” He leaves the room, and Skye smacks Grant on the arm.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demands. “He was only being nice.”

“There is nothing _nice_ about John Garrett, Skye,” Grant says, his voice low. “You should stay away from him.”

“He was right,” she says, stepping back. “You’re not yourself at the moment.”

“Whatever he’s been telling you-” Grant stops, and shakes his head. “Just… just don’t listen to him, okay? He’s not a good man. You need to be careful.”

“I can look after myself,” she snaps. Grant turns and makes for the door. He shudders to a halt, his head spinning. Images of what Garrett might do to Skye are flashing through his head, and a memory keeps cropping up, forcing its way out of the cache he thought he hid away years ago. His own hands, trembling in front of his face, spattered with so much blood that it looks like he’s wearing dripping gloves of-

“Grant?”

Skye is gripping his elbow gently. Gran realises he’s been frozen in the doorway for a long moment.

“Are you okay?” Skye asks, her eyes soft and concerned.

He nods, biting the inside of his cheek, and breathes through his nose.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “Let’s get some dinner.”


	24. Just like the old days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant wakes up with Skye, but how much longer will he get to do that if she finds out the truth? Garrett and Phil talk about Grant's past. Grant can't help but feel like he's being pulled right back into the world he thought he'd left behind.

When he wakes up, the first thing Grant feels is Skye lying next to him. She’s warm, and solid, and real. He curls around her, draping one arm over her side. She makes a quiet mumbling sound and presses back against his chest. Grant smiles, and kisses the top of her head. Is this what being happy feels like? Grant’s not sure he’s ever felt like this with someone.

Then John Garrett’s smirking face arrives at the forefront of his mind, and no matter what he does, it won’t go away. Just the thought of Garrett sours the warm contentedness Grant is feeling. He buries his face in Skye’s hair, but even the comfort of having her close can’t dispel Grant’s edginess. He screws his eyes shut, trying to put it all out of his head.

The worst thing, he has realised in the last few days, is how happy Phil is to have Garrett back around. Grant knows that Garrett and Phil were close for a long time. It’s hard to watch them being so chummy, when Grant knows what he knows. Phil is a good man, who wants to see the best in people, especially the people he loves. Grant is trapped, and Garrett knows it. It makes him sick to his stomach as he noses into Skye’s neck, trying desperately to distract himself.

“Morning,” Skye mumbles, misinterpreting his cuddling as a clumsy attempt to get the ball rolling on some lazy morning sex. “Sleep well?”

He gives a grunt that he hopes passes as an affirmative, and she rolls over to face him, pressing a kiss to his lips. Grant takes a moment to wonder how she can’t see him for what he really is on the inside. He doesn’t deserve the sleepy smile she gives him. He doesn’t deserve the soft kisses pressed to his jaw.

“What’s the matter?” she teases softly. “I can take my pyjamas off if it helps.”

He’s obviously not responding how she expects him to. He tries to remember what he’d normally do in this situation. Garrett is back in his head, and any possibility of morning sex goes straight out the window as Skye pulls back.

“Grant?” she asks. He tries not to think about how much he loves the way his name sounds on her lips. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “I feel… a little sick.”

She scrunches her nose in sympathy and kisses his forehead. “Sleep in. If you don’t feel better in a few hours I’ll call Phil.”

She lets her hand trail over his chest as she rolls out of his bed, padding into the bathroom. Grant watches her go, wondering how many more mornings she’ll be here once she finds out the truth.

-

“Coffee.”

Phil sets two takeaway cups on the table. John smiles, and takes one.

“The one thing you could never quite get a handle on,” he chuckles. “Is it from that little deli over the street?”

Phil nods. “Vicki grinds her beans fresh. And we’re getting better. Our kitchen hand Jemma made us all take a course about a year back.”

“Jemma,” Garrett says, leaning back in his chair. “She’s an interesting one. Her and the Scot both. How did they end up here?”

“They’re students,” Phil shrugs. “Geniuses, both of them. They applied together, I needed two kitchen hands, it all worked out.”

Garrett sips his coffee. “And Skye?”

“Skye just… appeared,” Phil sighs.

“She told me a bit about her past.”

Phil blinks. “She did?”

“What can I say?” Garrett says, spreading his hands. “People like to spill their secrets around me. I’m a trustworthy guy.”

Phil shakes his head. “It took her weeks to tell us anything about herself.”

“I guess you’ve made her feel right at home, then,” John says quietly. “You’ve always been good at that, Phil. It’s one of the things I’ve missed most.”

“You know you’re always welcome to come back,” Phil says, idly tapping the lid of his coffee.

John nods. “I know. But I also know that me being around isn’t good for Grant, and God knows he doesn’t need to suffer any more than he has.”

“He’s taken a few steps back in the last week,” Phil admits. “That has to be hard for you to see.”

Garrett nods. “I raised that kid like he was my own, Phil,” he says, his voice gravelly as he stares at his coffee cup like it holds the answers to the universe. “I won’t deny it’s tough when he looks at me like he doesn’t want to know me.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil says.

“It’s not your fault, Phil, it’s mine,” Garrett replies. “I knew when I took him under my wing all those years ago that there would be a price to pay for setting him straight. I’ll pay it, if it means he can live a normal life, here with you and Mel. And Skye, of course.”

Phil manages a smile. “That was unexpected, I can tell you.”

“Never thought the kid had it in him,” Garrett chuckles. “Do you remember the day I brought him here? Twenty years old, twitchy as hell. Sure as hell not a natural waiter.”

“He never talks about what happened before,” Phil says, quirking an eyebrow at Garrett. “That being said, he never really talked much at all before Skye arrived.”

John laughs. “Yeah, that’s my boy. Back when he was roving with me, the only thing that ever motivated him was leaving his life behind and starting fresh. That was the carrot, and sometimes I had to be the stick.”

Garrett leans back in his chair, swirling the cooling coffee around in his cup. “He’d spent a long time in bad places, doing sketchy jobs for sketchy guys. When I found him, he was running errands for a chop shop and stealing to supplement the miniscule wages the guy paid him. Caught him with his hand in my pocket, trying to get my wallet. You should have seen the kid’s face. He thought I was going to kill him.”

Phil laughs softly, and sadly.

“So I grabbed his wrist,” Garrett continues, “took out my wallet and gave him twenty bucks. Then I took him to a diner, sat him down with some hot food, and he told me about his life. The kid was only sixteen. Took him a while to admit that. He spent an hour trying to convince me he was nineteen. He thought I was some sort of cop.”

“You?” Phil says, arching an eyebrow. “He thought _you_ were a cop?”

“Right?” Garrett chuckles. “Didn’t take me long to debunk that. Then once he was talking, I just sat back. And you know his story. It’s not a good one. Once it was done, I knew there was no way I could let him go back to that dick at the chop shop, so I offered him a seat in my car. He helped me with the consulting business, but his story was always on his shoulders. I could see it, and it killed me.”

Garrett sips his coffee like it’s whiskey. “I’m not a father. Never have been, never will be. And damn, I wanted to be there for him. But all I did was remind him of how he had to be rescued from his train wreck of a life. So I thought to myself, who’s good at fixing broken people? Didn’t take me long to figure that you and Melinda were the only people I’d trust with him.”

“I don’t know if we fixed him,” Phil says. Garrett shakes his head.

“But you did, Phil,” he says. “I know he’s edgy now, but overall, look at him. He’s got a job, an apartment, hell, he’s even in a stable relationship. He’s a completely different person to the skittish kid I left here six years ago. That’s all on you.”

“Still,” Phil says, finishing his coffee. “It was lucky you found him when you did.”

Garrett nods. “Yeah, it was. It sure was.” He raises his coffee cup. “To luck.”

Phil smiles, and toasts.

-

Grant makes it to work, despite Skye sternly telling him not to do anything he doesn’t feel up to. When he walks into the dining room, Garrett and Phil are talking over coffee. He hears his name mentioned, and leans in the doorway, watching Garrett. Even the man’s body language gives nothing away. Grant is almost impressed. The man’s a master, as he always was.

“Grant,” Garrett says, rising from his chair. “Phil and I were just talking about you.”

“No kidding,” Grant mutters, folding his arms. Phil throws him a glance, and for a moment Grant feels like a teenager being interrogated by his parents.

“Yeah,” Garrett says. “About the old days.”

Grant tenses minutely, and Garrett sees it. With his back to Phil, his smirk is hidden from the boss, and the only sign of change is Grant’s fingers curling tightly on the door frame.

“Really?” Grant asks, smiling through gritted teeth. “How nice.”

“Grant,” Phil says.

“It’s okay, Phil,” Garrett says, waving him off. “Grant, you don’t have to worry. I’m not sticking around for long. I just have a few consults to do in town with some small businesses here and there.” Garrett’s lips twitch. “Maybe you’d like to join me? It’d be just like the old days.”

“I don’t-”

“Hey, John.”

It’s Skye. Face to face with Garrett, Grant has entirely forgotten that Skye is here.

“Skye,” Garrett smiles. “I was just campaigning to get a little time with Grant. I hope you won’t mind if I borrow him tonight. We need a good catch up. It’s been too long.”

Grant can hear the honey dripping off John’s tone, and he wills Skye to hear the calculating coldness underneath. She just smiles, and nudges Grant.

“That sounds great,” Skye says. “Grant, you should go.”

Grant glances at her, then at Phil. He wants to scream at Garrett, wants to force him to leave and never come back. But he can’t do that without laying his past out in front of the people he loves, and he’s not brave enough to do that. So he grits his teeth and forces himself to nod, attempting a smile.

“I’d love to,” he mumbles. Garrett’s fatherly smile is sickening. Skye squeezes his hand and then escapes to the bar. Grant almost runs after her.

“Then I guess I’ll see you after your shift,” Garrett says. “Phil, I won’t get under your feet tonight, I’ve got a couple of errands to run.”

He claps Phil on the back. On his way out, he meets Melinda, just arrived and standing in the doorway, and he kisses her cheek. She smiles, and Grant wonders for what feels like the hundredth time why no one can see what he sees.

-

The night passes in a haze. Grant serves, his mind elsewhere, trying his hardest not to screw anything up. Before he knows it, he’s wiping down the tables in the empty dining room with a vague sense of having done a good job. He’s just beginning to stack the chairs when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

 

**FROM: Blocked Number [11:41PM]: I’m going to need you downtown tonight, kiddo.**

Grant ignores the message and picks up another chair. His hands are shaking as he pulls it up onto the table, and he almost loses his grip on it. This can’t be happening. His life is rocketing right back to when he was sixteen. He’s being pulled into Garrett’s world again. He finishes stacking the chairs just in time for another text to come through.

 

**FROM: Blocked Number [11:48PM]: I had a nice talk with Skye yesterday. She’s living at your place, right? I might pay her a visit.**

Grant leans on the wall, bile rising in his throat. Ever since he came to Homeland, he’s been trying to become a better person. Making up for the things he’s done hasn’t been easy, and it seems like as soon as he’s grasped what he really wants in life, it’s been taken away from him by John Garrett. He knows Garrett will make good on his promise, if only to punish Grant for being disloyal. Images of Skye lying dead on the floor of his apartment flash through his head. Garrett’s very good at framing people. He’ll make them all believe that Grant did it, that he’s the one who betrayed all of them. They’ll hate him. He’ll lose Skye.

Finally, he pulls out his phone and sends a message with an affirmative. He doesn’t have a choice now. Garrett always said that love was a weakness, and it’s starting to look like he was right.

“Grant?”

It’s Skye. He closes his eyes and imagines what it would be like not to have to deal with all this, and to be able to go home with her and just sleep.

“May’s got dinner on,” Skye says. “Are you okay?”

He nods stiffly, and tries to make his voice work.

“I’m, uh…. I’m going to skip dinner tonight,” he says. Casual. Make it sound casual, that’s the trick. “I’m going for a drink with John.”

She smiles softly, and crosses the room to kiss him. “I’m proud of you,” she murmurs. “Have fun. I won’t wait up.”

He manages a passable smile, and watches her go, hoping desperately that this won’t be the last time he sees her.

He leaves the restaurant and gets on his bike and rides straight to the address Garrett sent him. It’s a small, run-down warehouse, and despite the innumerable alarm bells ringing in his head, Grant goes inside.

Garrett’s standing over a table of weapons in the gloom, and he looks up when Grant enters.

“I’ll do what you want,” Grant says, his voice hoarse. “Just don’t hurt them, John.”

“No one has to get hurt,” Garrett says, and Grant is reminded of the hundreds of times he’s heard that before. He approaches the table and inspects the guns and knives laid out in front of him.

“I have some deliveries and collections that need to be made tonight,” Garrett says. He starts to pack the weapons into a series of bags, along with packages Grant is fairly sure are drugs. What kind, he doesn’t want to know. Garrett won’t tell him even if he asks.

“I’m going to be doing my own work,” he says. “Here’s a key to the warehouse. When this table is empty, throw the key down a drain and forget this address.”

He hands Grant a sheet of paper. “Addresses.”

“There’s six of these,” Grant objects. Garrett looks up sharply, and Grant bites the inside of his cheek.

“And you’d better get them done before sunup,” he warns. “Or Skye’s going to be enjoying a visit from me.”

Grant looks down at the table, and Garrett laughs.

“I told you, Grant,” he says, shaking his head. “I warned you about getting attached. You should have known this life would come back for you.”

“This life didn’t come back for me,” Grant mutters, weighing one of the bags in his hand. “You did.”

Garrett just shakes his head again. “Don’t disappoint me, kid,” he says, his voice quiet. He shoves a gun at Grant, who takes it and slides it into the waistband of his jeans, hoists a bag over his shoulder and heads out into the night.


	25. Bruised Knuckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant comes home, and Skye doesn't know whether to be worried or scared. Skye takes her troubles to Melinda, and doesn't get the response she expects.

Skye is awake when she hears the door open. She’s been drifting in and out of sleep, getting more and more worried about Grant as the minutes tick by. It’s almost four-thirty in the morning now. She pushes herself up on her elbow as he enters the bedroom.

“Grant?” she mumbles. He jumps, and looks guiltily over his shoulder. He pulls his shirt off and stuffs it into the hamper. Skye squints into the gloom.

“You’re in really late,” she murmurs, sitting up. “I was getting worried.”

Grant still doesn’t reply, so she flicks the bedside lamp on. He flinches, and she frowns, sliding out of bed.

“Grant?” she asks. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting really weird lately.”

“I’m fine,” he rasps. In the light she catches sight of his hands, and grabs one.

“Your hand,” she says, turning it over. His knuckles are bruised and scraped. She notices a long scratch up his arm, and a bruise forming on his chest. “Grant, what happened?”

“Just a… a bar fight,” Grant mumbles, his voice shaky. “It’s fine… just… just a scrap…”

Skye frowns. “You’re lying to me,” she says, her voice sharp. His eyes flicker over her face briefly, and then return to the ground. She pulls his chin around so he has to look at her. “Grant, why are you lying to me?”

“Not lying,” he says, his voice shaky. “I’m not… I’m not…”

“I know when people are lying to me,” she says, her voice rising in volume. “What happened to your hands?”

His eyes are widening, and she can sense him starting to panic. She’s scared of this. What is she supposed to do?

He convulses abruptly, and pushes away from her, running for the bathroom. Skye follows, still hazy and confused. Before she even gets to the bathroom, she can hear the sound of violent retching. Grant is curled over the toilet, heaving.

She puts aside the bruises for the moment, and crouches down beside him, rubbing his back.

“You shouldn’t have gone out if you felt sick,” she murmurs. He groans, and slumps down next to the shower, shaking his head and wiping his mouth with a shaky hand.

“Yeah,” he manages.

“Come on,” she murmurs, silently kicking herself for being so aggressive. “Let’s get you into bed, okay?”

He manages to pull his jeans off, and she follows him into bed. He sits for a moment, flexing his fingers.

“Move in with me.”

Skye reels. Of all the things she’s been expecting him to say, this is not one of them.

“I don’t think now’s the right time for this,” she says gently. “You should get some sleep.”

“Please,” he says. His voice is desperate. “Just… stay here, okay? Don’t leave again.”

“I already told you,” she murmurs. “I’m not going to leave. But you need to slow down. You’ve been drinking, and you’re sick. You’re not thinking straight.”

“You have to stay,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around her. “I don’t want you to leave me.”

Skye curls against him and kisses his jaw, confused. “I already said-”

“I know,” he says, shaking his head. “I… I don’t want you to get to know me and decide you don’t want to be with me anymore.”

“That’s never going to happen,” she murmurs. “Grant, we’ve all got things in our past we don’t want other people to know. I promise, I won’t leave.”

“I’m not a good man,” he whispers, and his tone breaks her heart.

“Yes you are,” she murmurs, settling a hand on his chest. “I know you are.”

He makes a sad noise, and she wraps him in a hug, pulling the covers up over both of them. He’s asleep in minutes, and she slowly follows him. He holds her tight even in sleep, and the last thing she thinks before she drifts off is how much that scares her.

-

Skye is awake and making breakfast when Grant drags himself out of bed the next morning. She hears him moving around, but keeps her attention on the frying pan in front of her.

“Morning,” he murmurs, appearing behind her. His hands slide onto her hips, and his lips touch her neck, and for a moment she forgets all about the night before. Then she glances down and sees his bruised knuckles, and it all comes back.

“Hey,” she murmurs, trying to catch his hands. He slips away from her, and she goes back to the frying pan. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I thought I’d had too much to drink, but we were at a pretty sketchy bar, so it could have been the food.”

She nods. “Are you feeling up to breakfast?” she asks.

“I’d love some.”

She plates up two bacon sandwiches and sits down with him at the table. His shirt covers the bruises she knows are on his chest and upper arms, but she can still see the ones on his knuckles. He sees her looking.

“Don’t worry about me,” he murmurs. “I was dumb. John and I had too much to drink, and some guy was being an asshole to a girl… I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

She takes his hand and gently kisses his knuckles. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Skye goes back to eating. She’s told the truth. She _is_ glad he’s okay. But she also knows that he’s lying, and she’s pretty sure that it’s about what he was doing last night. Because even if he did get into a bar fight, she’s never seen him like he was the night before. As it has in the past, her trust is slowly unravelling.

“Did you mean it?” she asks. He looks up, and she can see him going over everything he remembers from last night.

“Mean what?” he asks.

“When you asked me to move in.”

It clearly takes a moment for that memory to surface. Grant looks suddenly guilty.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. I was in a bad way, and… I can get pretty down on myself when I drink. I guess that was my way of saying I want you around more.”

“I already practically live here,” she smiles. He’s cute when he’s flustered. “I just didn’t realise you felt that way.”

“Of course I do,” he says. “And I really would love for you to move in with me. But only if the idea doesn’t scare you.”

“Not gonna lie,” she grins. “It’s scary. I haven’t lived with a guy since Miles.”

His jaw twitches, and she covers his hand with her own. “I could never compare you to Miles,” she murmurs, squeezing his fingers. He winces, and she remembers the bruises and scrapes on his knuckles.

“So you want to?” he asks.

“Move in with you?” she smiles. “I’ll think about it.”

He clears their plates, and she follows him to the kitchen, leaning in the doorway.

“I’m going to go in and field a bar delivery today,” she murmurs. “You should get some more sleep.”

“I’m fine,” he argues.

“Grant,” she murmurs, moving over to tug him away from the sink. “Come on, you’re tired, and you’re sick. You didn’t get much sleep last night, so just sleep in a bit.”

He sighs, but she can already tell his mind has switched off. She pushes him gently towards the bedroom. He turns in the doorway and kisses her softly.

“I love you,” he murmurs. Skye bites her lip hard, and grips the doorframe. His eyes widen, alarmed.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice suddenly strained. “I didn’t… I didn’t think, I just… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“I love you too.”

The words fall out of her without her meaning to let them go, but when Skye hears them, she knows they’re the truth. Grant looks as shell-shocked as she feels. She pushes him gently into his room.

“Get some sleep, Grant,” she smiles. He squeezes her hand and then turns to collapse into bed. Skye closes the door behind him, and pulls on her jacket.

-

Melinda is in when Skye unlocks the door. Skye can hear her pottering in the kitchen, and she pauses in the doorway, shrugging off her jacket.

“Hey,” she murmurs, hesitant. May turns, and almost smiles.

“Hi,” her boss replies. “What are you doing in? You don’t have to be here for another five hours.”

“I know,” Skye nods. “I wanted to talk to you. About Grant.”

May sighs, and turns completely away from the bench. “Grant’s going to be okay, Skye,” she says, gently.

“I’m just worried,” Skye says, trying to sidestep May’s comforting. “After he went out last night, he didn’t come back until four in the morning, and he had bruised knuckles. He was sick, and really clingy. It freaked me out.”

“That doesn’t sound like him,” May admits. Skye tries to focus on telling the story without getting wrapped up in it.

“He kept telling me he was in a bar fight, and that he’d had too much to drink,” Skye tells her. “But he didn’t smell like alcohol, and he didn’t seem drunk at all. Just scared. He kept asking me not to leave him.”

“He’s having a tough time at the moment,” May reasons. “He’ll pull through. He’s probably just dredging up what he went through when you…”

Her boss trails off, and Skye feels a flash of familiar guilt. Could she be the reason Grant is so troubled at the moment?

“I tried to comfort him,” she says. “I’m not the best at it, but it was like he was scared something was going to happen to me. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“He just went for a drink, Skye,” May murmurs. “You can’t let your imagination run off with it. He was with John.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Skye presses. “All this stuff with Garrett… I’m starting to think that there’s something that we don’t know. Every time I try to talk about Garrett, Grant gets angry or clams up. I know he went through a lot as a kid, but it’s like he _hates_ Garrett. And I know Grant, it’s something deeper than just not wanting to remember his past.”

“What are you saying?” Melinda asks. Her tone has lost its gentleness, and Skye can suddenly see why Jemma occasionally calls her the Ice Queen.

“I think there’s more to Garrett than we see,” Skye says, hesitantly. Melinda’s eyes narrow.

“I’m going to let that slide, because you haven’t been here long,” the woman says quietly, taking a step towards Skye. “John Garrett has been a friend of ours for almost twenty years. He’s like a brother to Phil. So you’d better rethink all these conclusions you’ve jumped to.”

Melinda’s tone is getting sharper and colder, and Skye resists the urge to cower.

“I just thought-”

“You didn’t think,” Melinda cuts her off. “You don’t know Garrett. And what’s more, you don’t know Grant like we do. He and John have been around a hell of a lot longer than you have. So don’t assume that you know more about this situation than I do.”

Skye bites her tongue, and backs away, turning smoothly and fleeing the restaurant. Behind her, Melinda leans against the bench. If she’s honest with herself, she’s not sure that what she’s just snapped at their bartender is entirely true. There’s a niggling worry in the back of her head that tells her something’s different. But John is her friend, and Ward is so many different things to all of them. She doesn’t want any of her own assumptions to be wrong. They can’t be. She shakes her head silently, and goes back to work.


	26. Lock the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall apart. No one knows what to think anymore.

The dinner shift is over, and Phil and Garrett are enjoying a scotch at the bar. Skye has been unusually quiet, and has long since left, along with Grant. Phil isn’t sure what to make of anything at the moment, so he opts for a scotch with an old friend, hoping it will clear his mind.

“I’m gonna take off in a few days,” John says, swirling the amber liquid around his glass.

“You can stay as long as you like, you know,” Phil says. “I have a pretty comfy couch.”

“You don’t need me hanging around here, Phil,” John laughs. “You guys are like a little family. I wouldn’t want to get in the way.”

“You’re never in the way,” Phil says quietly. “So you come and visit whenever you feel like it, okay?”

“You’re a good friend, Phil,” John murmurs, his voice tight. “Sure, I’ll make sure I swing this way as soon as I can.”

Phil opens his mouth, but Garrett’s phone buzzes. The man pulls it out, and sighs.

“Time to go,” he says, downing the rest of his scotch.

“Who was it?” Phil asks.

“Just a friend,” John replies. “But I need to get myself packed up anyway.”

Phil rises, and shakes John’s hand. Then he pulls his friend in for a hug. John smiles, and just like that, he’s gone. Phil sighs, and washes their glasses before turning out the lights and getting in his car to head home.

Melinda is waiting when he arrives, curled up on the couch with the TV flickering on mute.

“I thought you and John were having a drink,” she murmurs. Phil shakes his head.

“He had to go all of a sudden,” he sighs. “Have… have you noticed anything odd about John recently?”

She shakes her head resolutely, but there is a trace of doubt in her expression. “No. I… I don’t know. I’ve been more worried about Grant.”

Phil nods, and sits on the couch beside her.

“It’s like he’s going backwards,” she continues. “Towards the person he was when he first came to Homeland. I haven’t seen him this skittish since the day he arrived.”

“We’ve already talked about this,” Phil sighs, kicking off his shoes. “It’s having John around.”

“I know,” she nods. “But do you think that’s the whole story?”

“I don’t know,” he yawns. “It doesn’t matter. John’s taking off in the next couple of days.”

“So soon?” she sighs. “He never seems to want to stay long.”

“It’s not us, Mel,” Phil says, reaching out and squeezing her fingers. “We did all we could back then, and he knows that. The rest was up to him, and if we know John Garrett, we know that he’ll always do what he needs to do, right?”

She nods, and he smiles. “We’ll get by. And he’ll pop up sometime in the future, like he always does. We can invite him to Christmas if you like.”

“I’d like that,” she yawns. “But what I’d really like right now is to watch a movie with you and sleep in tomorrow morning.”

Melinda opens her arms, and Phil lets himself slump onto her, curling up. She drags a blanket over the pair of them, and he nuzzles into her neck. For a long moment, he feels like everything might just go back to normal.

Then his phone rings in his pocket. He closes his eyes for a moment, then fishes it out of his pocket.

“It’s Skye,” he murmurs, frowning. He sits up, and answers the phone. “Skye?”

“Phil,” Skye gasps. “Thank God. Oh my God.” She makes a little hiccupping sound, like she’s been crying. She sounds scared.

“Skye?” Phil says again. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she whimpers down the line. “Grant… he… he came home… oh my God, Phil, I think he’s done something.”

“Calm down, Skye,” Phil says gently. May sits up, frowning at him. “Tell me what Grant did, okay? What’s going on?”

“I… I was waiting for Grant to come home, h-he said he was going out with… with Garrett,” Skye mumbles, her voice trembling. Phil can hear her holding back tears. “And… and Grant came in, and… Phil, he just passed out on the floor… he looks like someone’s attacked him… he’s got blood on his hands…” She takes a shuddering breath. “Phil,” she whispers. “He’s got a _gun._ ”

Phil’s stomach drops. “Are you okay, Skye? Are you safe?” Melinda is tugging insistently on his sleeve now, but he focuses on Skye.

“I don’t _know,_ ” she says, her voice quavering. “I don’t know what’s going on, Phil. I think he might have hurt someone.”

Phil hears her sob, and he grips the phone tight.

“Lock the door, okay?” he says. “Don’t let anyone in until we get there. We’re on our way.”

She hangs up, and Phil grabs his shoes, fumbling as he puts them on. As he grabs his jacket, Melinda stops him.

“Phil,” she says firmly. “What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Phil says. His fingers are trembling. “Skye says Grant came home and passed out on the floor. He’s got blood on him, and a gun.”

“A _gun?_ ” Melinda exclaims.

“Get dressed,” Phil says. “We’re going over there.”

“Why the hell does he have a gun?” Melinda asks, her voice rising in pitch as she pulls on her jacket and shoes and grabs the keys, tossing them to Phil.

“I don’t _know,_ Mel,” he snaps. “Let’s just go.”

She follows him down to the car and they get in. Phil drives away from his building, trying not to speed as his mind races.

It takes them almost fifteen minutes to get to Grant’s building. Phil screeches to a halt outside, and they get out, scrambling for the door. They hurry up to Grant’s apartment and Phil knocks on the door.

“Skye?” he calls. “It’s Phil and Melinda. Open the door.”

They hear a scraping, and the door opens. Skye is standing there, her face streaked with tears and her shoulders shaking. She lets them in, and Phil takes in the scene in front of him.

Skye has dragged Grant onto the couch. He’s bruised, and his clothing is ragged. He can see blood on Grant’s clothes, but there’s blood on his hands as well, and not from any obvious injury. Phil’s eyes flicker over to the coffee table, where Skye has placed the gun, carefully facing the wall.

Phil registers the sound of sobbing, and comes back to earth. He motions for Melinda to go to Skye. May hurries to the younger woman and wraps her in a hug. Skye sags against her, shaking and crying while May strokes her hair and guides her into the kitchen. Phil is left alone with his unconscious, blood-covered waiter lying on the couch.

“What the hell were you up to, Grant?” he asks, distress creeping into his voice. He knows in any other situation that he would call the police. But this is Grant. This is a man he’s tried so hard to help, to guide away from things like this. Hell, Phil spent years trying to protect Grant from the rough side of this city, and look how that’s turned out.

Something bad has happened, that much is clear. Phil shifts from foot to foot, and finally he can’t take any more watching. He goes into the kitchen, his head reeling.

Skye is breathing deeply, still hiccupping now and then, and May is talking to her softly.

“I don’t know,” Skye whispers. “He didn’t say anything. The second the door closed behind him he just keeled over, straight onto the floor. That’s when I saw the gun.” She turns her tear-filled eyes on Phil. “What happened to him? What did he do?”

“I don’t know,” Phil murmurs. It seems to be a one-phrase conversation at the moment. “But we’re going to figure it out, Skye. Just because he came back with a gun doesn’t mean…” He trails off, because it does, and he knows it. He just doesn’t want to know it.

“You were right,” Skye whispers to Melinda. “I don’t know Grant. I never would have thought…”

“You said that?” Phil asks. Despite everything that’s happening around him, he doesn’t want to hear that Melinda has taken anything out on Skye. His partner bites her lip, and glances up at him.

“I didn’t mean it,” she says, her voice soft. She turns to Skye, taking both of her hands. “Skye, you know you’re a part of this family no matter what. And you know Grant in ways that none of us do.”

“Obviously not,” Skye whispers. “I thought all this was just stress, that he was just acting weird because he wasn’t processing Garrett being around very well, but this…” Tears begin to trickle down her cheeks again. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

She gets up, and despite May trying to pull her back, she walks into the lounge, still shaking. She looks down at Grant, her fingers twitching. Then she turns to May and lets the older woman wrap her in a tight hug.

Phil just folds his arms and tries not to let his mind run away with him. Maybe it’s not what he thinks. Maybe it’s the complete opposite. Maybe it’s all just a huge coincidence, and they’ll laugh about it later. But as Skye sobs into May’s shoulder, and Phil takes in the full extent of Grant’s condition, he realises that there’s not much chance that this is going to end happily.

“Come on,” May says quietly, pulling Skye back towards the kitchen. “Come sit down.”

“No,” Skye protests, resisting. May lets her be, clearly trying not to upset her any further. Phil pulls out his phone.

“I’m going to call John,” he says, his voice hoarse. If Skye’s right, and Grant went out with Garrett, then John might know what’s happened.

“Don’t.”

Phil jumps as the battered man on the couch pushes himself up on his elbow and croaks out the single word.

“Don’t what?” Phil asks, completely lost. There are much more important questions to be asking Grant right now.

“Don’t… call him,” Grant mumbles, through a swollen lip. Phil holds his phone tightly in his hand, confused. He looks over at Melinda, and is alarmed to see a look of dawning understanding on her face. She looks vaguely horrified as she pulls away from Skye and slowly moves around the couch, walking deliberately, like she has to focus on not tripping. She crouches down in front of Grant, who squints at her through a black eye.

“Grant,” she says, clearly. “Did… did John do this to you?”

“ _Melinda._ ”

“Shut up, Phil,” she snaps over her shoulder, her eyes frightened. “Grant. Answer the question.”

Phil stands rigidly, outraged by the question Melinda is putting to the battered man on the couch. Garrett? How can she even ask something like that?

“Grant,” Melinda urges. “Did John Garrett do this to you?”

Grant looks at her, and then up at Phil. Melinda still looks faintly horrified and afraid, and Phil’s expression has settled into a stony look of shock.

“Yes,” Grant croaks. The room is silent.


	27. How a father would feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil can't believe what's happening to his little family. He wants to know if Garrett could really be responsible. Most of all, he wants to protect Skye, but will she let him?

Phil dials again. For the fifth time, he listens to the hollow ringing tone in his ear. After a minute, the call goes to voicemail.

“I’m not available,” John Garrett’s tinny voice tells him. “Leave a message.”

Phil hangs up. He’s already left three messages over the last hour, and sent a string of texts. The silence from the other end is doing nothing to make his evening any less scary and confusing.

John can’t have done something like this, can he? Phil has been wracking his brains trying to think of any possible scenario that could end in Grant staggering home, injured and carrying a gun, and Garrett vanishing. He’s coming up blank, and it’s starting to look more and more like there’s a lot that Phil doesn’t know.

“Phil?”

It’s Skye. Her voice is oddly hoarse. She looks devastated, and Phil hates it. She’s one of the strongest people he knows, and seeing her falling apart like this is tough. After Ward’s single-word answer to May’s question, Grant has fallen into an exhausted sleep, and May’s been sitting with Skye while Phil’s been trying to get hold of Garrett.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out instinctively. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she leans into him. “You okay?”

“No,” she mumbles, and pulls away from him. “I was looking for other… other weapons, and I found something.”

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Just… come and look.”

Phil has a feeling that whatever this is, it isn’t good. He doesn’t want to go back into that room and see Grant on the couch. But Skye has taken his hand, and he can’t say no, not when she needs him with her.

She leads him out into the lounge, where May is leaning against the wall, staring at the floor. She looks up at Phil as he follows Skye in, and he attempts a reassuring smile. It clearly comes out as a grimace, because she returns her gaze to the floor.

“Look,” Skye says, crouching down next to Grant’s sleeping body. She gingerly reaches into the pocket of his jacket, and pinches the lining, pulling it inside out. Phil watches as a trickle of white powder falls from the lining of the pocket, settling on Skye’s fingers and onto the floor.

Phil’s head is spinning. Beat ups? Drugs? What the hell is going on? Why isn’t John answering his phone?

“Go wash that off your hands,” he says, trying to stop his voice from trembling. May leaves her spot on the wall and moves over to him, examining the powder on the floor as Skye drifts over to the bathroom to wash her hands. Phil hears a sound from the bathroom, and he glances at Melinda. She nods, and shoves her hands into her pockets, staring down at Grant. Phil goes after Skye.

She’s standing over the sink, gripping the porcelain. Her hands are clean of whatever was in Grant’s pockets. Phil can see her chest heaving as she struggles to breathe through the panic. He pulls her gently away from the sink and helps her slide down to sit against the wall.

“Head down,” Phil says softly. She ducks her head between her knees, and Phil strokes her back.

“What’s happening?” she whispers. Phil shakes his head, though he knows she can’t see him.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “But we’re going to figure it out. It’s going to be okay.”

He crouches in front of her until her breathing slows down. She grips his arm, and he helps her up from the floor. His eyes are prickling, maybe because it’s almost four in the morning, but mostly because he hates seeing Skye this way.

“Phil!”

He jumps at May’s call, and hurries into the lounge. Grant is awake.

Phil feels Skye enter the room behind him, and he instinctively holds out an arm to stop her going any closer. Grant is slowly sitting up, bringing up a hand to grip his head with a quiet groan.

“Skye?” he mumbles, blinking. He looks around and spots May, and Phil. His shoulders sag. His face falls – at least Phil thinks it does, it’s hard to tell under all the bruises – when he sees Skye standing behind Phil, peering around their boss at him.

“Are you alright?” May asks, her voice clear and firm.

He glances at her. “Skye-”

He is cut off by a cough, and he groans, gripping his chest. Skye darts around Phil, evading the hand that shoots out to keep her back, and she crouches down next to him.

“Grant,” she says, her voice shaking. “Okay, just relax, we’re going to call an ambulance for you-”

“ _No,_ ” he snaps. Skye jumps up out of frightened instinct, and takes a step back. Grant registers her fear, and his face crumples. “I don’t… I don’t need an ambulance.”

“Yes you do,” Melinda says, caught between concern and anger. “You’re bleeding.”

“Grant,” Phil says. “We don’t care what happened right now, we just need to make sure that everyone’s safe, okay?”

“You need to go,” Grant says, shaking his head. He sits up, groaning, and tries to get off the couch. He fails, slumping back.

“We can’t just leave you,” Skye falters.

“Go,” Grant snarls. Skye flinches, and Phil moves around to stand next to her. “Go, if he finds out you helped me-”

“If who finds out?” Skye asks. Phil tenses, dread running through him.

“John,” Grant says, wiping his bleeding nose on the back of his hand. “He hurt me, he’ll come after you-”

“Stop it,” Phil snaps, pulling Skye back behind him. “Don’t say that.”

“Phil,” Melinda says, her voice quiet.

“No!” he exclaims. “I’m not going to stand here and listen to him lie about-”

“Phil,” Skye says. Her voice is soft, and scared, and he hasn’t realised that she’s gripping onto his sleeve. He looks at her, and heaves a breath. This is all too much.

“We can help you, Grant,” Melinda says, trying to sound comforting. “Just tell us what happened.”

“You need to _leave,_ ” Grant grits out, glaring at her. She looks at him for a long moment.

“We’re going to talk about this,” she says, her voice low and warning. Grant crumples back onto the couch, and Melinda takes hold of Phil’s arm.

“I want to come with you.”

Phil looks at Ward, who looks as devastated as the rest of them feel. Skye is looking pleadingly at Phil, who moves over and puts his arm back around her shoulders.

“Of course you’re coming with us,” he says. “I wouldn’t want you staying here tonight.”

He doesn’t look at Grant as he steers Skye out of the apartment. May closes the door behind them and they take the elevator down to the street in exhausted silence. Phil puts Skye in the back, but she won’t let go of his arm, so he climbs in beside her and May drives them back to his place.

-

Phil is barely aware that he’s dozing when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He jerks, and finds May standing next to him with a cup of tea. She sets it on the table in front of him.

“She’s almost done in the shower,” she murmurs.

“Still crying?” he asks, heavily.

“On and off,” May answers. Her voice is nowhere near as steady as he’s used to, and it scares him. “I think she’s done, for now.”

He nods, and goes over to the couch, where he mechanically arranges the pillows and re-folds the comforter he’s laid out for her. Eventually, Skye emerges from the bathroom, dressed in May’s pyjama shorts and one of Phil’s t-shirts.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. She’s so exhausted that she’s swaying. “I should have gone back to my van.”

Phil takes her arm and steers her to the couch, sitting her down. He pushes her wet hair back from her face and cups her cheek. She raises her fingers to his hand, clutching him like a lifeline.

“I want you where I can look after you,” he says, quietly. “Okay? We’ll figure all this out in the morning, but for now you need some sleep, and I want to be able to make sure you’re okay.”

She bites her lip and leans in, snaking her arms around his neck. Phil holds her, rubbing her back. After all the years he spent talking with May about how bad they’d be as parents, he wants to protect this girl like she’s his own.

“You need to sleep,” he says. She nods, and pulls away from him. He tucks a strand of her wet hair behind her ear. “We’ll be right here if you need us,” he says. She squeezes his hand and lies down, curling up on the couch. Phil sits with her, and within minutes, she’s out like a light. He sits back in the armchair with a quiet sigh, and feels Melinda sit on the arm of the chair. He looks up at her.

“Tea,” she murmurs, passing it to him. It’s not hot anymore, just pleasantly warm. Phil watches Skye sleep, and Melinda rests her hand on his shoulder.

“She’ll be okay,” she murmurs.

“She’ll leave,” Phil says, his voice strained and exhausted. “She’ll run off again, and we won’t be able to protect her.”

“She’s not our daughter, Phil,” Melinda murmurs. He just stares at the woman on the couch.

“I’ve never had one,” he mumbles. “But I’ll bet this is how a father would feel right about now.”

Melinda ducks down and kisses his head. “You’ll do as much as you can. That’s what you’ve always done.”

“What if that’s not enough?” Phil asks, looking up at her. “What if believing in someone and trying to help them isn’t enough this time?”

He’s talking about Skye, but Ward and Garrett are right up there in his mind. Melinda can tell, and she slides a hand onto the nape of his neck.

“Do you really think John could be involved in all this stuff?” he asks, terrified of the answer.

“We did everything we could have done back then, Phil,” she says, her thumb sliding in circles on his neck. “Whatever’s happened, this isn’t our fault.”

“Answer the question,” he says, gazing up at her. “Please.”

“Yes,” she says. Phil can see her heart breaking, and he stands up, drawing her into a tight hug. He feels like his world is spinning out of control. He feels so, so lost.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “It’s almost five. We both need some sleep.”

He trails along with her to the bedroom, and stops in the door, leaning against the door frame.

“Phil,” she says, tugging on his hand. “Try not to think about it. Come on.”

She slips an arm around his waist and he acquiesces, letting himself be pulled into the bedroom.


	28. The Monster in the Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant remembers, and wakes up alone. May asks some tough questions. Phil makes a decision.

The building is run-down, and it looks abandoned. Grant knows better, though. The address is on the paper Garrett gave him, so this is the place. Garrett doesn’t make mistakes.

The gun in his pocket is heavier than his trudging footsteps as he opens the door. He doesn’t want to go inside. He feels like a kid again, doing Garrett’s dirty work and half hoping a cop will jump out of the shadows and drag him off somewhere where John can’t find him. No one comes, though, so he walks inside.

The men are seated around a table. There are cards, liquor and a haze of smoke around them. It’s almost comical how clichéd it is.

“Who the fuck are you?” a burly guy demands, slowly getting up from the table.

“You owe my friend money,” Grant says, hating how easily his voice slips into that old threatening tone he once used so liberally.

“I don’t owe no fucking money,” the guy grunts, his hand twitching towards his pocket. Grant stays still. He doesn’t want to pull out the gun. He can do this without anyone getting hurt. It doesn’t have to be like the old days.

“Just hand it over,” he says, calmly. “You and I both know that you were happy enough to take the product. Just pay up, and we won’t have any trouble.”

Two more men stand up, leaving just one of them at the table. Grant watches him sneak a look at his buddies’ cards, and returns his attention to the big guy advancing on him.

“His shit wasn’t no good,” the man snarls. “He cut it with weak stuff. I ain’t a moron, I can tell.”

“If you don’t like it,” Grant says, simply, “then give it back.”

The guy’s expression falters, and Grant resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’s been through this a thousand times before.

“I’m not paying you shit,” the guy sneers. Grant sighs, and pulls out the gun. The guy responds by pulling a knife out of his jacket.

“If we’re going to fight,” Grant says, looking pointedly at the knife, “I’m betting on me.”

The big guy gives an amused grunt, and sets the knife on the table. “I got your money,” he chuckles, going over to a bag by the wall. “I was just fucking with you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Grant mutters, shoving the gun back into his pocket. The big guy comes over with a roll of banknotes, which Grant takes, and puts in his jacket pocket. He turns to leave, realising his mistake far too late.

Two pairs of hands grab him, and yank him backwards. He goes sprawling, and a foot connects with his ribs. He grunts in pain, and a boot hits his shoulder, then his side. Someone grabs him, and something hard connects with his face. Pain bursts through his nose, and he feels blood spurt down over his chin. Stars dance behind his eyes, and he feels fists connecting with his chest over and over again, knocking the wind out of him.

He doesn’t fight it. This is what he deserves for letting himself get pulled back into this mess. Eventually, he is aware that they have stopped beating him. He hauls himself off the floor. The men are gone, and so is the money from his pocket.

He swears through swollen lips, and staggers out the door, getting onto his bike. The streets are empty, which is lucky, because he can barely see through swelling eyes. Blood is still dripping down his face, and as he pulls up at the address Garrett texted to him, he can feel it pooling in the back of his throat.

“Where the hell have you been?” John snaps, as soon as Grant limps into the building.

“Busy,” Grant replies, thickly. He slams the bag he’s carrying down on the table, and Garrett rifles through it. He quickly looks up at Grant, something dangerous glinting in his eyes.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” he asks, quietly. The tone sends a chill down Grant’s spine, and he wonders what the opposite of nostalgia is.

“What is it?” he asks.

“There’s five grand missing,” Garrett snarls. Grant flinches. The guys. Fuck.

“They wouldn’t hand it over,” he attempts.

“That’s what the gun was for, moron,” Garrett spits. He shoves Grant’s shoulder, sending pain flaring through him. He grabs the gun from Grant’s back pocket and flicks open the chamber.

“Where are the bullets, Grant?” he asks, glaring at the bleeding man.

“I took them out,” Grant says, through clenched teeth. “Chucked them in the river.”

“You’re a fucking moron,” Garrett snaps.

“I wasn’t going to shoot anyone for you.”

“A sentimental fucking moron, then.” Garrett tosses the gun at him with a noise of disgust. “You’re useless. I’ll bet you didn’t fight back when they beat the shit out of you.”

Grant stays silent, because he hates how well Garrett knows him, and also because the world is starting to spin.

“You were always useless,” Garrett is saying, as Grant grips the table for support. There must be a gash on his forehead somewhere, because there’s blood trickling down his forehead and into his eye. He blinks it away and tries to stay upright.

“I tried,” Garrett says. “I tried to give you a second chance. But you couldn’t get it right, even now.”

“Shut up,” Grant mumbles. His vision is getting hazier.

“Useless,” Garrett’s voice says, in his ear. His grip on the table slides, and he crumples onto the floor.

“Moron… sentimental moron.”

A vicious kick connects with Grant’s already bruised chest, and he cries out, tasting blood.

-

Grant snaps awake, hauling himself into a sitting position. For a moment, he can’t remember where he is. Then the pain rolls over him and he gives an exhausted groan, flopping back against the couch cushions.

He is alone.

He looks around. No Garrett. No Skye. No one’s there. The door is locked. He tries to focus his swirling mind, and after a moment of concentration he remembers Garrett leaving him for dead on the floor. He remembers staggering home through the streets, desperate to make sure Skye was somewhere safe. He remembers… oh God… he remembers snapping at her, frightening her. He remembers Phil and Melinda taking her away, and the looks they shot over their shoulders at him as they left.

Grant buries his face in his hands, ignoring the twinges the action sends through his body. He’s never been so ashamed of himself. He’s let himself be bullied like Garrett, like he did when he was a kid. He’s let Garrett get away with it.

He fumbles for his phone. It’s still there. He catches sight of the gun on the table in the corner, and his stomach sinks. He calls Skye.

She doesn’t answer, and he feels sick. What if she never wants to see him again? What then?

He calls her again, and then once more, but it keeps going to voicemail. He musters what little courage he has left, and calls Melinda. She picks up after a few rings.

“May?” he rasps into the phone.

“Did you kill anyone last night?”

The question shocks him. He stills, and realises that he has to think about it.

“No,” he says softly.

“Because the police came to Phil’s this morning,” she says. Her tone is cold, and almost emotionless. Grant thinks he can detect a hint of tension, maybe fear. Then again, maybe he just has blood in his ears.

“The police?” he asks, faintly.

“There’s an arrest warrant out for John Garrett,” she says. He can hear the tiny cracks in her voice, threatening to betray the emotion underneath the surface. “And an unknown accomplice.”

Grant is silent. The police are after Garrett. He feels a tiny spark of satisfaction that people will finally see the monster in the man. Then Melinda starts talking again, and all that is swept away.

“Grant, if you’ve hurt anyone you need to tell me _now,_ ” she says, her voice sharp. “Because Phil and I just had to spend an hour answering questions about one of our oldest friends, who’s now on the run from the law, and who might have killed people. So if you’ve done anything for John, you… you need to tell me.”

He hears the hesitation, and he realises just how much this has hurt their little Homeland family. He can’t even imagine how Phil took the arrival of the police.

“Grant.”

“He gave me a gun,” Grant admits, in a rush. “I didn’t know what to do, he said he was going to hurt Skye-”

“ _Grant-_ ”

“I took the bullets out, I didn’t fight back when they beat me, I swear I didn’t hurt anyone. I _didn’t hurt anyone.”_

Melinda is silent, and Grant thinks about it. “Unless… Skye… is she okay?”

There is silence from the other end, and then the phone goes dead. Grant drops it onto the floor and buries his face in his hands.

-

Phil tries not to let his mind wander as he strokes Skye’s hair. Letting himself think about the night before and the visit from the police might just kill him. But comfort, he can do. So for now, he immerses himself in carding his fingers through Skye’s hair as she cries into his lap.

She’s been curled up there since the two policemen left late in the morning. Phil knows how she feels. He almost wants to do the same. But he has to comfort her. It’s the only thing he knows for sure right now. Skye is gripping his hand like a lifeline, and he’s not about to let her go.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, but his voice doesn’t sound like his own.

“Phil?”

He looks up at Melinda. She looks as exhausted as he feels, with red-rimmed eyes and a slump to her shoulders that is scarily uncharacteristic. She sits in the armchair opposite him and looks down at Skye.

“I don’t think he killed anyone,” she says woodenly.

“Good,” Phil says. Like that word could apply to any of this.

“They’ll get him,” Melinda says, and her voice wavers. Phil blinks as he sees tears in her eyes, and he disentangles his fingers from Skye’s to reach over and take his partner’s hand.

“It’s okay,” he says hoarsely. He’s said that a lot in the last few hours.

“How could he?” Melinda whispers. “I just… I can’t…”

He squeezes her hand and she ducks her head, composing herself. When she looks at him again, the tears are gone, and that hard expression is back. He hates that look. It reminds him of the bad times, of the years when everything was falling apart.

“What are we going to do about Grant?” she asks. Skye twitches at the name, and Phil smoothes down her hair.

“We’re going to do what we should have done a long time ago,” Phil says, his voice regaining some of its strength. “We’re going to protect him.”

Melinda considers it, and then nods tiredly. Phil pulls his phone from his pocket and calls Jemma.

“Phil?” she answers, her voice panicked. “I got Skye’s messages, my phone was off last night, is everything-”

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he assures her. “Everyone’s safe. But we’re going to close down the restaurant for a few days. Take the weekend off. Tell Fitz, okay?”

He ends the call, and looks down to find Skye looking up at him.

“You’re going to help him?” she croaks.

“Of course we are,” Phil nods. Skye presses her face into his legs, and he manages a small smile to Melinda. It wavers a little, but he’s resolved. He’ll do everything he can to keep what’s left of his family from falling apart.


	29. If I Lost You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma needs her friend. Fitz wants comfort just as much as she does. They talk about Skye, Homeland, and the future.

Jemma puts her phone in her pocket and leans against the wall, blinking slowly. Everyone’s safe. Everyone’s safe? What does that even mean? She hasn’t been able to get any more information out of Skye, and she’s not surprised. It sounds like the woman hasn’t slept since yesterday. She’s probably asleep on Phil’s couch.

Jemma slides down to sit on the floor, staring at the phone in her hands. Her mind is curiously blank, except for the one instruction she has: tell Fitz. She can do that. But her legs don’t want to let her stand up off the floor, and she doesn’t want to move. She wants to curl up and protect herself.

She feels like she’s been awake for days. She wants to fall into bed, crawl under the covers and not come out until all of this has vanished.

How has everything gone so wrong in such a short space of time? She barely knows what’s happening at Phil’s place, only what she’s been able to stitch together from Skye’s garbled messages and Phil’s phone call. From what she hears, it’s been a crazy night for everyone. And Ward… Jemma doesn’t even want to think about it. But she can’t stop.

She finds herself walking to Fitz’s room without even thinking about it. She needs her friend right now. He’s always been steady and reliable, and if everything else in the world has gone crazy, at least she knows he won’t have.

He’s at his desk when she lets herself into his room. There are papers scattered everywhere, probably an assignment he’s finishing at the last minute, but equally likely to be a pet project he’s working on for the fun of it. He looks up when she enters, and though he always claims to be bad at reading people, he can instantly tell that his friend is upset.

“What is it?” he asks, rising immediately from his chair. “Is it Ward? Did something happen?”

“Phil called me,” she says, her voice slightly shaky. “He said that everyone’s safe, and that he’s closing Homeland for the weekend. He said… he said to tell you.” Reciting the words doesn’t make her feel better, or useful. She just feels lost.

“When he said everyone’s safe,” Fitz says, cautiously, clearly remembering her reaction to Skye’s string of texts that came through earlier.

“I don’t know,” she says. “He wouldn’t say that if he didn’t mean Ward, right? But I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t…” She trails off, biting back tears. It’s not fair. None of this makes sense. She just wants to sleep. Her arm wraps around her torso like she’s in pain, and before she can crumple, Fitz is right there, wrapping his arms around her. She leans into her friend, breathing deeply through her nose to calm herself down.

“What if he’s not who we thought he was, Fitz?” she whispers. She can feel him shaking his head.

“I don’t believe that,” he says. “Whatever it was, whatever he did, it was Garrett influencing him. He’s not a bad person. You know that. We both do.”

“But what if-”

“Jemma. Don’t do this.” She can hear his voice wavering. “He wouldn’t hurt any of us. He wouldn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“He had a _gun._ ”

His arms tighten around her. “Don’t, Jemma. Please don’t.”

“Fitz-”

He pulls back, and she feels instant regret take his place against her chest.

“What if you’re right?” he asks, his voice sharper now. “What if he deliberately hurt people? What if he’s not a good man? What if he’s not our friend? What does that mean for all of us? For Homeland?”

Jemma can hear the fear in his voice. He’s scared that their little unit is falling apart, piece by piece. It was hard enough when Skye left. Skye… oh God, Skye. Jemma cringes as she remembers Skye’s last departure. With everything that’s happening now, what’s to stop her from vanishing again? It feels like everything is up in the air, ready to come crashing down, and Jemma doesn’t like the feeling of not being able to stop it.

She realises Fitz’s face is crumpling as his thoughts follow the same line, and she snakes her arms around his waist again, pulling him in.

“It’s going to be okay,” she murmurs. “Whatever happens, I promise I won’t take off.”

He tugs at her arm, and for a moment she thinks he’s trying to escape the hug. Then she realises he’s pulling her towards the bed. She sags in relief, and crashes down on his pillows with him, curling up with her arms tangled around her friend. They do this sometimes, mostly when one or both of them gets homesick, and it feels good to have that comfort now.

Their legs tangle together, and she lifts her head so he can slide an arm under her, pulling her closer. She’s never had this kind of intimacy with anyone, even a boyfriend – not that she’s ever really had a boyfriend, but even if she had, she doubts she would have found this much comfort with him. She drifts in and out of awareness as they lie there, just breathing together. Eventually, she hears Fitz speak.

“How did your date go?”

His voice is almost timid. She has to think for a moment before she remembers that Trip took her to dinner the week before. She glances at him, but he’s not looking jealous or confrontational. He’s apologising, she realises, for how he reacted to Trip when they first met. She smiles, and shifts her head on the pillows so she’s looking at him. He really doesn’t know how to say what’s on his mind. He may wear his emotions on his sleeve, but sometimes he can be so difficult to read.

“It was nice,” she shrugs. “We went to a nice restaurant, talked a bit… but I don’t think either of us was really interested. He likes to flirt, and he’s a good guy, but… I guess we both knew we weren’t feeling it.”

He quirks an eyebrow for less than a second, but she catches it. He doesn’t really believe her. She rolls her eyes, smiling ruefully at him. So there’s jealousy still. She kind of likes it, this protectiveness. It’s nice to know he’s worried about her, at least enough to follow up on the men she spends time with. She nestles comfortably against him again, and her mind turns to less pleasant thoughts.

“Do you think Skye’s going to leave again?” she asks, voicing her worry from earlier. “Now that… all this has happened?” She doesn’t want to think that her friend will leave, but she already knows what Fitz is going to say before he says it.

“If it ends badly,” Fitz says softly. “I guess she will. She’s like that, I think.”

“I missed her, last time,” Jemma sighs. “And even then, I was convinced she’d come back. I hoped. If she goes now, I don’t know if we’ll ever see her again.”

“It’s not about us,” Fitz murmurs.

“I know,” she says. “But… can’t it be a little bit? I just wish we were more important to her.”

“I think we are, Jemma,” he says. “But Skye’s not like us. She never had a family, or a home. She doesn’t know what having roots is like. I think it scares her a bit, feeling so at home with all of us. If I were her, I’d always be worried the other shoe was about to drop.”

Jemma tries to imagine what that would be like. She can’t stand the idea of not having someone like Fitz in her life, or where she might have ended up if she’d been abandoned by her parents as a baby and had grown up never knowing them. She can’t even begin to fathom how an abandonment like that would feel, or how it would affect her throughout her life.

“But she knows we love her,” she says, sadly.

“She does,” he answers. “But we need to give her space to make her own decisions. That’s how it’s always been for her. We can’t ask her to stay for us if she’s not going to be happy.”

“And she won’t be, if this all goes south.”

“Exactly.”

It’s a grim reality, but Jemma knows he’s right. They will just have to wait it out, and let Skye decide for herself what she wants to do.

“I don’t like change,” she mutters. She feels him shift, and looks up at him. He’s gazing at her with the most inscrutable look, and it’s something she’s never seen on his face before.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she murmurs. Something shifts in his expression.

“I just don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” he says. His words are so clear that she can only blink for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. Why would he say something like that? He’s still looking at her like she’s the only person in the world, and it’s making her blush. He smiles, and she can’t take it anymore.

She leans in and kisses him.

He stills completely, and for just a second, they lie with their lips pressed together. Then his arms tighten around her, pulling her closer, and he kisses her back, fervently, desperately, like it’s all he’s ever dreamed about, like it’s the only thing he needs in life-

She tears herself out of his arms, scrambling back across the bed. In moments she’s out of his room, closing the door behind her. She can hear him call her name, but she’s already fleeing down the corridor, all the way to her room. She locks the door, crawls into bed and pulls the covers over her head, her cheeks burning and her lips still tingling.


	30. Part of the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil visits Grant, Grant gets more than he expects, blood comes out in the wash, and Grant thinks about the future.

Grant is scrubbing at his couch cushions. His hands are raw from the action. He can’t seem to get rid of the rusty stains he’s left on the battered fabric. Blood is hard to shift. But he already knew that - Garrett taught him the hard way.  
  
Someone knocks on the door, and he freezes where he is, on his knees by the couch. Instantly, he regrets getting rid of the gun. What if John’s come back for him? He rises silently, swiftly calculating whether he can reach the window and get onto the fire escape outside before the door is broken down. Then, he hears a voice.  
  
“Grant?”  
  
Phil. Grant slumps, relieved, and goes to the door. He opens it a crack, hesitant. Phil could still be here just to punch him, and Grant wouldn’t blame him. But he’s probably not here to kill him, so he opens the door fully, and Phil steps inside.  
  
“Phil,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I’m… God, I’m so sorry. I never thought this would happen, I just… I’m…”  
  
Phil cuts him off by reaching out and hugging him. Grant stiffens in surprise, but quickly melts into the embrace. No one has hugged him like since… he doesn’t know when. Certainly not Phil. But he needs it, God, how he needs it, and he buries his face in Phil’s shoulder.  
  
“Everything’s gone to shit again,” he mumbles. “I thought I was better.”  
  
“It’s not your fault,” Phil murmurs.  
  
“I lied to you.”  
  
Phil just holds him, and Grant feels like this man is the only thing stopping his life from falling apart in that moment. Garrett has blown through like a tornado and destroyed everything Grant’s worked so hard to build. He’s been reduced to the malleable teenager he was when he first arrived at Homeland, and he hates what he has become.  
  
Phil lets him go, and walks him over to the kitchen, forcing him down into a chair at the table. While Grant breathes through his nose and tries his hardest to keep himself together, Phil makes coffee, and only when he sets two mugs down on the table and sits opposite Grant does he speak again.  
  
“If they question you,” he says, unwavering. “Tell them you were with me and Melinda.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Grant doesn’t understand. What is Phil saying?  
  
“The police might come to you,” Phil explains. “I don’t know if they will, or who might ask you, or when, but if they do, tell them you were with me and Melinda at my place. That’s what we told the police.”  
  
“You lied?”  
  
“For you.”  
  
Grant feels an overwhelming rush of gratitude, immediately followed by a wave of guilt.  
  
“Phil-”  
  
“Don’t, Grant.”  
  
Grant shakes his head, ignoring the interruption. “Why would you protect me after I lied to you? After Melinda? Why?”  
  
Phil grasps his shoulder, and the contact feels warmer to Grant than the mug of hot coffee in his hands.  
  
“The same reason I didn’t fire your insolent ass when you first came to Homeland,” he answers. “You’re a part of the family, and families look out for each other.”  
  
Grant is stunned. After everything he’s put the team through, this is not what he expected from his boss. In the absolute best case scenario, he expected to be firmly told to pack his bags and leave town. But Phil… Phil is forgiving him. Offering him protection.  
  
He lowers his head, overcome, not wanting to show his emotions. Phil knows this move too well after ten years, and he lets go of Grant’s shoulder and lets him compartmentalise until he’s ready to talk again.  
  
“And Skye?”  
  
For an instant, Grant thinks that Phil is about to retract everything he’s just said. His stomach drops, and hundreds of terrifying thoughts burst into his head at once.  
“She’s sticking around, for now,” Phil sighs.  
  
It’s not the answer Grant was hoping for, but it’s a good start. But if he’s not fired, and Skye’s not leaving, then what does that mean for the two of them? Grant isn’t stupid enough to think that he’ll get a warm reception from Skye, but he can’t help but hope that Phil might give her a similar speech. If anyone can convince her, it’s Phil.  
  
“Grant,” Phil murmurs, hesitant for the first time since crossing the threshold of the apartment. “She’s going to take longer to forgive you.”  
  
He exhales, but there is a spark of hope in the mix of his emotions. Phil clearly thinks that Skye might forgive him eventually. That’s better than nothing.  
  
“May?”  
  
“Mel’s on my side. We’re going to look after you.”  
  
“Are you and her…?”  
  
Phil shrugs. “I don’t know what we are. I don’t know what anything is right now. But we’re something, even if we’re not going anywhere for the time being.”  
  
Grant sighs, and drains his coffee.  
  
“Come on,” Phil says, once they’re finished. He puts their mugs in the sink, and walks into the living room. “I’ll help you with the couch.”  
  
Grant follows him, and gestures uselessly at the spatters of his blood, which are all too visible on the light fabric of the couch.  
  
“Grab some dishwashing liquid,” Phil says. Grant goes to the kitchen and finds the bottle, then takes it to Phil.  
  
“Did I ever tell you we used to have armchairs in the bar?” Phil says, rolling up his sleeves.  
  
“Armchairs?”  
  
“Mmm,” Phil confirms. “They were a nightmare. Never put fabric in a bar if you can avoid it. I spent half my nights cleaning mysterious stains out of those things. We ended up dumping them by the side of the road and re-fitting the whole bar."  
  
To Grant’s relief, as they scrub and rinse the couch, the blood comes out. He’s left with water stains on the fabric, but anything is better than the blood.  
  
“There,” Phil says, after they’ve finished.  
  
“Thank you,” Grant mumbles. “Thank you so much, Phil.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” Phil replies. “Change your locks, get some sleep.”  
  
Grant opens his mouth to ask about work, but Phil is steps ahead already.  
  
“Don’t come back in until you’re ready,” Phil says. “The customers will understand. I’ll bring in reinforcements for a few days. I’ve got plenty on the books who all owe me favours.”  
  
Grant nods, and slumps back on the couch cushions.  
  
“It’s going to be okay,” Phil says, as he picks up his jacket. Grant, despite himself, believes him.  
  
Phil leaves, and Grant finds that he actually feels better. He still feels like shit whenever he thinks about Skye, or whenever he moves too quickly, but with a few painkillers at least one of those problems gets easier to deal with. He considers a different type of painkiller to deal with how he feels about Skye, but drinking isn’t going to help him right now, so he starts to clean his apartment, trying to take his mind off anything serious.  
  
It’s only later, when he’s lying in bed, surrounded by crisp linen and exhausted from his efforts, that he starts to think about what he’s done. How is this going to go down? Will Skye even talk to him? He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to deal with being the reason Skye leaves again. And Skye… God, this must be awful for her. She’s gone through enough already, and now this. Grant rolls onto his side, and pulls a pillow over his head, trying to bury his thoughts for long enough to fall asleep. He agonises for hours, and only once the sky is lightening into dawn does he finally fall into a troubled sleep.


	31. Mosaic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're scared, vulnerable, hurting, and they need each other like crazy.

The floor is cool, and the bar is dark. Skye lets her drink burn its way down her throat. It’s the only thing keeping her warm right now. She thought her life couldn’t get any more screwed up than it already was. Boy was she wrong.

  
It’s been a few hours since Phil let her slip out of the apartment. She doesn’t know how long she spent on her boss’s couch, and she’s still wrapped in one of his sweaters. She needed to be out, so she left. Now she’s here, because every damn thing in her entire life seems to come back to this place now. Homeland. What a dumb fucking name for a restaurant.

  
She glares up at the sign hanging over the bar. Homeland. Who the hell came up with that shit? Probably Phil. Phil, with his idealistic crap about everyone being happy and loving and deserving of second chances. Phil who was completely wrong about Garrett- so what’s to say he’s not wrong about everyone else? He believes in her, is that wrong? She used to think so, back before this place sucked some of the cynicism out of her. Now she doesn’t know what to think.

  
Skye gropes for the bottle. It’s some blue shit, something no one ever orders and won’t be missed. She knows drinking her problems away isn’t a good coping mechanism. She’s never been good at coping with anything. Turns out resilience isn’t the same as being well-balanced.

  
And what is she supposed to do? She can’t leave. She doesn’t want to leave. Even with all this shit, with Grant turning up half-dead, John Garrett on the run, her own tremendous insecurities - she doesn’t want to go. These people are her family, more so than anyone in her whole life has ever been. She can’t just let go of that. It would be painful, and she’s not in the mood to cause herself more pain than necessary right now. She’s scared, and confused, and she just wants to sit here and drink until the clock winds back and everything can go back to how it was before.

  
She hears the back door open, and shrinks down. If it’s Phil, hopefully he’ll just assume she’s in her van. Melinda might not have even noticed she’s gone, she’s on another planet right now.

  
Someone enters the bar, and she looks up. Of course.

  
“Sorry,” Grant says, his voice husky. “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here. I’ll go.”

  
“Wait.”

  
Her voice sounds as raspy as his. She’s shed more tears in the last twelve hours than she has in the last ten years combined. Grant is hovering at the entrance to the bar, ready to turn tail. His eyes are wary, and Skye suddenly realises that he’s terrified. Just like her.

  
“Come here,” she says, uncertainly, motioning to a bit of the floor opposite where she’s sitting. “Just… have a drink. You look like you need one.”

  
There is a palpable relief in his frame as he moves over and slides down to sit on the ground.

  
“I can’t go back to my apartment yet,” he mumbles. “I need to get the locks changed.”

  
This is a different man to the one she knows. He looks younger. Vulnerable. There’s no surety at all, no confidence. He’s hunched over, protecting himself. He’s afraid. Skye pours him about three shots of vodka and he takes the glass, gripping it tight. She says nothing. She doesn’t know how to start.

  
“I’m sorry.”

  
She manages a strangled chuckle, but it sounds more like she’s been punched in the chest.

  
“Not just for… what’s happening now,” he sighs. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this in the first place. You shouldn’t have been involved in any of this.”

  
“You didn’t drag me into anything,” she says, shaking her head. She’s still sitting where he can’t quite reach her. It’s not that she doesn’t feel safe, she just doesn’t know how to cross that space and comfort him, this new man she doesn’t know.  
The silence stretches on as he drinks, and soon she’s itching to ask a question she didn’t know she even wanted the answer to.

  
“What did you do?”

  
He tenses, but she doesn’t back down. She’s something to him - they may not have got to the point where she was comfortable calling herself his girlfriend, but she’s _something,_ and she deserves to know why her safe little world is being pulled apart strand by strand.

  
“I’ve done a lot of things.”

  
“I don’t need the whole story,” she murmurs. He looks up, surprised, and she shakes her head. “I already know it. John found you when you were desperate, and you thought he was helping you, but he wasn’t. You eventually got away, but he kept finding you.”

  
His mouth is slightly agape. “How-”

  
“Grant,” she sighs. “It’s my story too. Any kid from a bad background has a story like this. Everyone who’s hit rock bottom has a Garrett. I’ve had more than one. I’m not a saint.”

  
“I didn’t kill anyone.”

  
She nods. “Okay.”

  
“I could never do that.” He seems agitated, like he wants to prove it to her. She believes him, if only because of the desperation shining in his eyes.

  
“I’ve hurt people, though.”

  
“I’ve hurt people too.”

  
The silence isn’t a warm silence now. They are sinking into their respective memories of lives that they have wanted to forget since they escaped. Seeing Grant immersed so vividly and suddenly in his old life makes her feel less secure in her new one. If his demons can catch up with him, surely hers are just around the corner.

  
She shifts, sliding over to sit on the same side of the walkway as him. She’s still far enough away that they aren’t touching.

  
“Are you afraid of me?” he asks. She turns, a sarcastic reply on the tip of her tongue, and she sees a scared little kid in a body that can do damage to people and has done it before, behind eyes that have seen people who are afraid. The sarcasm withers on her lips.

  
“No,” she says, gently. “No, Grant, I’m not.”

  
He lowers his head towards his knees.

  
“He really did a number on you, huh?” she murmurs.

  
“It wasn’t all him,” Grant replies. “I was already like this when I was a kid. My parents made sure of that. And my brother. Garrett didn’t have to do much work.”

  
Instinctively, she wants to bat down his opinions of himself, but it’s not going to help. Nothing is going to help here. He’s in the same spiral she is. They both want to run away somewhere, leave their problems behind them like they’ve been trying to do for decades. She can’t think of a single word that would make it better, so she reaches over and rests her hand on his. He doesn’t move his hand, but she sees a little bit of the tension in his shoulders unwind.

  
“It can’t be the same as it was,” she says. It comes out sadder than she means it to.

  
“I know.”

  
Whatever they had, it’s all turned on its head now. There’s something darker in the mix, staining all the lovely memories she’s acquired, storing them up like treasures. Now that’s tainted, but what else is new? Maybe it’s just her brain going back to its default setting. Coping mechanisms. She’s full of them.

  
“Maybe we can work towards… something.”

  
He just looks tired. She feels it too, the same ache in her body she felt when she was lying in a hospital bed. Pain and exhaustion and fear are all mixing together into a cocktail of anxiety and all she wants to do is sleep before it all gets too much and she ends up curled in a ball on the floor of the bar-

  
There’s a noise out the back. Grant flinches violently, his hand whipping out from under hers. Skye hears the door open, and she flips on the lights.

  
“Is someone there?” Phil’s voice calls.

  
Skye almost collapses with relief. “It’s me and Grant, Phil,” she calls back. If Phil is surprised at this development, he’s careful not to show it when he comes into the bar. The man looks as bad as she feels, and she moves over and hugs him before he can say anything.

  
“Sorry,” she sighs. “I needed a drink. And so did… Ward.”

  
Grant has manoeuvred himself back up to lean on the bar. He stares down at his hands, and then glances up at Phil.    
“Garrett’s been arrested,” Phil says. His voice is shaky. Skye puts a hand on his arm. This is awful for him - the man is like a brother to him. “We got a call from the police about an hour ago.”

  
Grant sags, lowering his head into his hands for a moment. He has the tact not to say anything celebratory, for which Skye is grateful.

  
“You should go home,” she murmurs. “Be with May.”

  
“Are you okay in your van tonight?” he asks her, his voice low, one hand on her elbow. “You can come back to ours if you don’t feel safe.”

  
“I’ll be fine.”

  
“Grant?”

  
Grant looks up when Phil says his name.

  
“Are you going back to your place?” Phil asks. Grant glances down at his hands.

  
“He’s getting his locks changed,” Skye explains. Grant looks ashamed of himself, and she doesn’t quite understand.

  
“Even if he’s in jail,” Grant mumbles, “even… even if he’s locked up, I don’t know that he won’t send someone. I just… I can’t go back there tonight.”

  
“Do you need money for a hotel room?”

  
He looks panicked at the thought. “Phil- no, I can’t take anything from you. You… you’ve…”

  
Phil holds up a hand. “Okay.”

  
“He can stay with me.”

  
The reply to Skye’s suggestion is an incredulous silence, and she looks between the two men.

  
“Are you sure?” Phil asks, just as Grant opens his mouth to ask the same thing.

  
She nods. “The bed in the back is roomy, there’s enough space for both of us. The locks are good, and we can make a quick getaway if someone comes knocking.”

  
She’s feeling better already, talking about escape like this. She pushes that worrying thought out of her head for the time being, and waits for an answer. Grant is looking at Phil like he’s waiting for permission. Phil seems uneasy, but he nods.

  
“Okay,” he says. “But you can both come to my place if you need to. Okay?”

  
Skye nods. Phil pulls her into another tight hug, and she kisses his cheek.

  
“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you for everything.”

  
He doesn’t reply, just kisses her forehead and retreats from the bar.

  
“Skye-”

  
“I know,” she says. “I know I said it can’t be the same. But I also said we can work towards something, and this is how we can do that.”

  
“I don’t have to stay with you. I can go somewhere else.”

  
“I want you to.”

  
It’s a startling admission, given that twelve hours ago she was downright scared of him. But he’s still Grant, he’s still the obnoxious waiter who gives her butterflies when he smiles, and despite this metric fuck-ton of crap that’s been dropped on them both, she wants him close to her. They’re broken, sure, but they can mosaic themselves back together somehow.  
He nods slowly, and she fishes her van keys out of her pocket. He follows her out of the restaurant and just watches as she locks up. Skye gets the feeling that he can’t quite believe she’s letting him come with her. If she’s honest, she can’t quite believe it herself. Everything is confusing, and the only thing she knows is that she actually wants to comfort someone else before being comforted. It’s scary, and nice, and she doesn’t know how to feel, which is starting to feel like the new normal.

  
Skye slides open the van door and motions for Grant to climb in. It’s a cramped space with both of them, but once she locks them in and helps him climb past the miniature work station and into the bed, it’s almost comfortable. She slides in opposite him, and they’re rolled to either side of the van, touching the walls. She reaches across and laces their fingers together.  
“I don’t deserve you.”

  
It’s Grant who’s said it, but she’s been thinking the same thing.

  
“Don’t be an idiot,” she mutters. She hears a faint noise that could almost pass as a chuckle, and she closes her eyes, happy just to hold his hand. She drifts off slowly, trying to ignore the sounds of cars passing outside.

  
When she wakes, it’s to a warm weight pressed against her. Grant has rolled in the night, bringing them both into the middle of the mattress. His head is resting on her shoulder, and his arm is looped loosely over her waist. She can’t help but give a tiny smile. This is almost like it was before. It’s just nice. If she forces all the bad stuff to the back of her mind, she can forget it for a few minutes while she trails her fingers through his hair. He mumbles, and she slides an arm under his head so he is comfortable. She can’t get back to sleep, but she watches the darkness pale into dawn as Grant sleeps heavily, weighed down by exhaustion, draped over her like a blanket.


	32. Welcome to Homeland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long time ago, a happy couple opened a restaurant. After that, it got a little more complicated.

-

_March, 2004_

-

 

As she watches her husband working with a crowbar to dislodge a rotted plank from the floor, Melinda can’t help but feel like she’s the luckiest person alive. The tanned glow from the Pacific sun won’t leave her skin for at least a couple of weeks, she and Phil finally have their names on the deed to a little place of their own, and the long stall of their hospitality careers seems to be cranking into gear at long last.

 

“What are you smiling at?” Phil chuckles, sauntering over with the crowbar by his side. Melinda reaches out and wipes a smear of dirt from his cheek with her thumb, and then presses close for a kiss.

 

“Don’t ruin your dress,” Phil protests, looking down at the pristine blue fabric. Melinda arches an amused eyebrow, and he cracks a grin. He grabs the sledgehammer from its resting place against the wall, and hands it to her.

 

“We’ve still got to tear down that awful wall in the dining room,” he says. “Come on.”

 

There’s shit all over the place, and Melinda knows it’s going to be months before they’ve knocked this place into any kind of shape, but right now she doesn’t care. Their next payment on the loan isn’t due for weeks. They don’t have to worry, at least not today. The bliss of their anniversary celebrations in Fiji is still washing over her like the warm, gentle waves of the ocean.

 

She is jerked from her daydreams by the sound of her husband jamming his crowbar into the wall and wrenching free a loose chunk of plaster. He laughs, delighting in the destruction of this place that has cost them everything they have and then some.

 

“I love you, Mel,” he sings, slamming the crowbar back into the wall. Melinda hefts the sledgehammer into her hands, and approaches the demolition site.

 

“I love you too,” she replies, and draws the hammer back, swinging it into the wall with a resounding thud. Plaster bursts out of the wall and scatters over the tarpaulin and planks on the floor. Melinda laughs along with Phil as they rain blow after blow on the hideous plaster wall. When it’s stripped back to the bare skeleton, they remove the rest of it, leaving a wide space. The floor between them and the far wall is littered with garbage and debris.

 

“Perfect,” Phil sighs, happy beyond belief.

 

-

 

Later, as they sit on an upturned crate and sip lukewarm beer from the cooler in the trunk of the car, Melinda sees a face appear in the far doorway. The sun is setting, flooding the debris field that is their property in an oddly beautiful light. Framed in the door are two faces, Melinda realises, not one. A man and a woman.

 

“Can we help you?” she asks. Phil looks over, wondering who would bother coming in here.

 

“Hey,” says the man, smiling. “We were in the area, and we saw you guys were remodelling. We’re looking for work, do you need any help?”

 

Melinda laughs, shaking her head. “If we could afford to pay people to help us, we’d be finished by now.”

 

The pair look a little deflated, and Phil motions them over, pulling out two more beers. The couple - and Melinda has to assume they’re a couple, just by the way the man touches the woman’s hip as they manoeuvre over boards and around chunks of plaster, and the way she smiles back at him.

 

“Tell us about yourselves,” Phil says.

 

“Clint,” the man offers. “I’m from Iowa.”

 

“Natasha,” says the woman. “Russia. Then New York. Then all over the place.”

 

“We’ve been travelling,” Clint continues. “And it’s been good, but we need work for a while. We’re flat broke.”

 

Melinda smiles. She knows the feeling. And yet, it’s not the same feeling of doom and disaster that she used to get when she was out of cash.

 

“Like I said,” Phil sighs. “We can’t afford to pay you. But if you were happy to work for… say, a mattress on our floor and food and drink, we’d love to have some help around here.”

 

Natasha looks over at Clint. “We did say we wanted to work in hospitality. And a mattress on the floor has got to be better than the car.”

 

Clint shrugs, a blissful smile on his lips. “Sounds good to me.”

 

“We’re in,” Natasha grins. She reaches over and shakes Melinda’s hand, then Phil’s. Clint does the same, and soon the four of them have lapsed into happy, quiet conversation, sipping beer and watching the light drain out of the sky. When the beer runs out, Phil closes the cooler.

 

“Come on back to our place,” he says, taking Melinda by the waist. She laughs softly, and kisses his cheek.

 

They travel back, Phil and Melinda driving on ahead with Clint and Natasha following behind them in their own car. It doesn’t take long - they don’t live far away. Before the hour is up, they’re sitting in Melinda’s sparse but charming living room, drinking yet more beer and still talking. Melinda is already in love with this beautiful young couple. They’re happy, they’re energetic, and they’re willing to work for no money. Perfect.

 

“It’s not quite finished,” Phil is saying to Clint, over the plans he’s drawn up for the restaurant. “Well… it’s nowhere near finished. At all. But I have some ideas for it that, if we can pull them off, are going to be fantastic.”

 

“I like it,” Clint says. “You know, you could put a bar in here somewhere.”

 

“I thought maybe over by this edge of the dining room.”

 

“Yeah, but if you split this part here - see this wall? Just continue that on, and then later you can build an extension and really let it flow into the dining space.”

 

“Sorry,” Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes at Melinda. “Clint’s a massive interior design enthusiast.”

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Clint protests. “I didn’t hear you complaining when I fengshui-d the car so we could fit that mattress in.”

 

“You cranked the back seats down. Not really fengshui, sweetheart.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“You shut up.”

 

Melinda is laughing into her beer, and Natasha gives a red-cheeked grin, embarrassed at being caught out in a sappy moment with Clint. They’re very much alike, Melinda realises, she and Natasha. She chides herself inwardly for assuming that - what does she know? But there’s a sense of reluctance to open herself, which Melinda can definitely identify with, and- she might be imagining it, but if she had to guess, she’d say that the woman has a past she’s worked hard to get around.

 

“Mel?”

 

Shit. Caught psychologising again. Phil hates it when she does that.

 

“Mm?” she responds.

 

“What do you think?” Phil asks.

 

“About what?”

 

He laughs, and shakes his head fondly. “Miles away. Thought so. About Clint and Nat working for us.”

 

“I thought they already were.”

 

“I mean once we actually open the restaurant.”

 

The couple are looking at her, eager to hear her verdict.

 

“Of course they should,” she says, smiling. “If they can wait that long, that is. And they’re happy crashing on that mattress until then.”

 

Clint raises his glass, and Phil beams.

 

-

_November, 2005_

-

 

“Don’t look so nervous.”

 

“I’m trying. It's just that I'm really nervous.”

 

Melinda laughs, and brushes a nonexistent speck of dust off Phil’s collar.

 

“You’re going to be great, Phil.”

 

“You think so?”

 

“Come on,” she chuckles. “You’re always an arrogant ass, don’t stop now just because of a few butterflies.”

 

“C’mon, chief,” Clint says, clapping him on the back. “It’s showtime.”

 

Phil steps up, his brand new jacket making him look smarter than Melinda’s seen him since their wedding.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins. “Thank you all for being here tonight. It means so much to us. Quite honestly, there were times I thought I’d never see this room full of faces. Not so long ago, it was a nearly-condemned pile of planks and dirt. You guys near the back may fall through the floor, but hopefully everything else will go to plan.”

 

He pauses to let the ripple of laughter fade.

 

“Please enjoy yourselves tonight. God knows I hope you like our food. Feel free to stick around, and enjoy our brand new bar, manned by my very good friend Mack. Please, tell your friends, tell your family, even that weird uncle, everyone’s welcome. On behalf of all of us, welcome to Homeland.”

 

The dining room erupts into applause, and Phil stands there, red-cheeked, letting the adulation roll over him. It’s all for him, and Melinda watches his eyes sparkling and feels all kinds of emotions tugging at her. Natasha grasps her shoulder, and Melinda smiles.

 

“He looks so good up there,” she murmurs. Natasha makes an assenting noise.

 

After that, their night descends into the organised chaos of running the kitchen, directing the wait staff and coordinating with Mack on the bar to make sure everything goes off without a hitch. The guests are singing the praises of the chef, and raving about the drinks - even Phil’s decor is getting a mention now and then. Melinda watches her husband roving around, energised by the constant praise, and she can’t stop herself from smiling every time she sees him. It’s like he can’t believe he’s really here, standing in his own restaurant, a real-life success.

 

When the nights winds down into the early hours of the morning, the last of the patrons has been ushered out of the bar by Mack, and Melinda has distributed tips and dismissed the wait staff, she finds Phil leaning against the bench in the kitchen, still smiling.

 

“Hey,” she murmurs. He turns, and sweeps her into an embrace.

 

“Can you believe it?” he hums. “It all went so well.”

 

“Of course it did,” she grins. “It’s your restaurant.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

“No,” he says, nudging her back against the bench. “I love you.”

 

She giggles, and draws him in. “I love you too.”

 

“Melinda,” he murmurs, tracing a fingertip down her jawline, “I don’t think you understand just how much-”

 

She interrupts him with a kiss, and it’s all the excuse he needs. He pushes her more firmly against the bench and kisses her back, winding his arms around her. Melinda lets her hands wander, one moving under his shirt and up his back, one in his hair. He nips her lip and she gasps softly. He’s about to seize the hem of her shirt when they are startled by a knocking sound.

 

“Uh,” Natasha says, one eyebrow raised. “We’re… uh… we’re heading off, did you guys want to come?”

 

Melinda laughs, and slides out from under Phil.

 

“I’ll… be there in a minute,” Phil mumbles, adjusting his pants. Natasha stifles a snort, and Melinda leads the way out of the kitchen, smiling to herself.

 

-

_August, 2007_

-

 

Melinda blinks at the computer screen. That can’t be right.

 

“Phil?”

 

He pops his head around the door. “What’s up?”

 

“Come take a look at this.”

 

She turns the laptop around so he can see their online banking.

 

“What about it?” he asks, looking from the screen to her.

 

“Our mortgage. Where’s the account?”

 

Phil just smiles at her. She waits for him to explain, but he doesn’t.

 

“Phil?”

 

“I was going to tell you. I didn’t think you’d check the banking until later.”

 

It hits her in an instant. “You paid it off?”

 

He beams. “Yep.”

 

“How?”

 

“With money.”

 

She rises out of the desk chair. “Phil. Don’t be a smartass. Is this for real?”

 

He nods, and she bounds forward, exhilarated. He seizes her in a hug, and she wraps her arms around him. This is the first time she’s really felt secure in all of this. The restaurant is theirs, the apartment is safe, and they actually have money. Real money, money they don’t have to squirrel away or put straight back into the business or a loan.

 

Her head is still spinning after a few hours, when they’re at Homeland running service for the night. There’s something different about Phil, something in the way he’s holding himself. It’s like he’s not worried about a thing. It’s an odd look for him, but she quite likes it. He’s not afraid of failure. That little voice she knows he can hear in the back of his head is clearly gone, and he’s in his element.

 

Later, when he’s on the bar, Phil is still floating on air. He’s been happier tonight than he has been since they started all of this. They’re a success. People love the restaurant. It’s all he’s ever wanted, and more besides. He pauses now and then, watching Clint and Natasha moving about the dining room, and occasionally he catches a glimpse of his wife at the window of the kitchen. She is glowing. His heart is full to bursting with love for her, and for the secret she told him a week earlier. He can’t tell anyone yet, but he can hardly wait. Everything is going right, for once.

 

-

_May, 2009_

-

 

Phil is in the kitchen of their apartment when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He picks it up quickly. 

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, Phil.”

 

“John?” Phil grips the phone a little tighter. “Is that you?”

 

“Yeah, it’s me.”

 

Phil hasn’t heard from him in months. The anniversary of his parents’ death is coming up, and it’s strange to get a call now.

 

“Is everything okay?” he asks. “You normally vanish off the face of the earth this time of year.”

 

“Everything’s fine,” Garrett answers. “I’m headed your way, actually. Hear you and Mel finally set up shop in California a few years back.”

 

“We did,” Phil replies. “Five years, now. It’s amazing. You have to come and see it.”

 

“I will. But I’ve got a favour to ask.”

 

“Sure, anything.”

 

“I won’t be in town for long, but I’ve got this kid with me. He needs taking care of.”

 

Phil frowns. “I don’t know that I’m the right person for-”

 

“Phil, c’mon,” John interrupts. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you were the right man for the job. This kid is seventeen, but he’s mature. Seen some shit, I can tell you that. He needs a job, and some stability. I thought you’d be the person to bring him to. I’ve been telling him about your place, and he seems interested.”

 

“I don’t know, John.”

 

“Think of it as fostering an animal. He just needs a little TLC and he’ll be loyal to you forever.”

 

“Tash and Clint have finally taken off traveling, I guess,” Phil sighs. “Alright. Bring him in.”

 

“Thanks, Phil,” John says. “I owe you one.”

 

The line goes dead, and Phil tucks his phone into his pocket. This isn’t the first one John’s owed him, but he’s not about to point that out to his friend. Besides, it sounds like this kid really needs some help.

 

-

 

“One of John’s strays? Are you serious?”

 

Melinda looks pissed, and now that he actually thinks about it, Phil can’t say that he blames her. Their life is almost perfect right now, and every time John Garrett enters it, things do tend to take a sharp downward turn. But it won’t be like that this time. Phil won’t let it happen.

 

“Who is this kid?” she demands.

 

“I don’t know,” he says, leaning against the bedroom wall. “Apparently he’s just a kid John picked up somewhere. A bit damaged.”

 

“Great,” Melinda groans, sarcastically. “He couldn’t have scored us a junkie, or an actual stray dog?”

 

“I couldn’t say no to him.”

 

“Why, because his parents died? Put a plaster on that bleeding heart of yours and focus on the business, Phil. Or me. Or yourself, you could focus on yourself before some kid you don’t even know.”

 

Phil stares at her. That’s not the woman he knows. He waits for her to soften, to apologise and beckon him in so they can talk it out like they normally do, but Melinda just rolls onto her side and pulls the covers over her shoulder. Phil climbs in, feeling an unwelcome divide down the middle of the bed. Somehow he knows he’s not welcome to wrap an arm around her waist tonight, but he does it anyway, because he’s afraid that this coldness he’s seeing in her isn’t just temporary. He shakes that thought off, because it’s absurd. This is Melinda. His Mel. She could never leave him out in the cold, not for good. Surely not.


	33. Atlas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil brings an old friend back to Homeland, and it brings up more than he expects.

Cold, that’s the only way to describe the way May is glaring at the griddle as she cooks. The flames are hot, but her stare is icy. Phil tosses the metaphors around in his head as he watches, and then turns away, unable to bear it. He’d thought that something was starting again between them, but even though they sought comfort in each other through all this, he’s not sure she’ll want to be around him anymore. Bad things always seem to follow when they find themselves optimistic. A crappy outlook, sure, but it’s proven true every time so far. Everything has gone to shit since the good old days, if they were even good. Phil can’t help but view them through a rose veneer compared to life at the moment.  
  
He wanders out to the back, and sits on the step in the alley, pulling out his phone. The number comes to him from memory, even though it’s saved as a contact. It feels comforting, knowing he has this number memorised.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Hey, Nat. It’s Phil.”  
  
It’s good just to hear her voice again. It’s been so long.  
  
“Where are you?” he asks.  
  
“Not far out of your neighbourhood, actually,” she replies. “I’ve been meaning to come by.”  
  
“You don’t feel like some work, do you?”  
  
The sound of her chuckle is like a warm breeze on his skin.  
  
“I could work for a couple of weeks. I’d love to see the old place.”  
  
“It’s not that old.”  
  
“Not as old as you, sure.”  
  
His turn to laugh. “Is Clint with you?”  
  
She pauses. “I haven’t heard from Clint in a long time. I think he’s back in Iowa.”  
  
“Never mind, then,” he attempts, deliberately not asking any of the questions that arise from that particular piece of information. “See you tomorrow?”  
  
“Sure,” she says. “Can I crash at your place?”  
  
“Do you even have to ask?”  
  
“You still have to pay me this time.”  
  
He smiles. “See you soon, Nat.”  
  
She hangs up, and he slides his phone back into his pocket. Natasha isn't with Clint? He sighs, running a hand through his hair. When did everyone drift away from one another? He thinks of the two young travellers who arrived on what was left of his doorstep all those years ago, and how happy they were. They couldn’t keep their hands each other. Melinda said back then, and Phil agreed - they were soul mates, if ever there was a pair. Then again, back then, Phil thought Melinda was his soul mate. He still does, sometimes, but is it still true if half the pair doesn’t agree? He thinks of Fitz and Simmons, bumbling their way towards love. How long will it take before they are estranged, hurting, middle aged and full of regrets?  
  
He can’t keep on like this. It’s negative, and it’s making him sink back into a place he doesn’t need to be right now. He breathes deeply, and stands up, heading back into the restaurant. He has work to do.  
  
It’s a Sunday, and there’s not much of an afternoon rush. Skye is already closing down the bar, and Grant is slowly working his way through the dining room, idly cleaning the empty tables. They are recovering, Phil is pleased to see. A few days ago, it seemed that neither of them would be able to work their way through it. Phil was convinced that Skye would take off and Grant would shut down, but here they are, tenuously moving towards normalcy. If only Phil knew the secret to dealing with trauma like that. Perhaps he’d still be married.  
  
They shut down Homeland early, and once everything is clean and ready for tomorrow morning, everyone starts to disperse. Melinda hasn’t been cooking meals for the last week, and no one wants to ask her about it, even now that they feel like eating again. Phil went to cook last night, but the look he got from Melinda was enough to tell him not to try.  
  
Skye and Grant seem happy to stay in Skye’s van, and Phil isn’t about to question it. If they’re taking care of one another, it’s two fewer people he has to worry about. Jemma and Leo are on the brink of being their usual bubbly selves, reserved only when May or Phil are in the room, out of respect, or nerves, Phil doesn’t know which. It seems like it’s only him and Mel still suffering. Once everyone is gone, Phil catches Melinda as she brushes past him towards the door.  
  
“Mel.”  
  
She shrugs him off angrily, but stops in her tracks.  
  
“Why the silence?” he asks, his voice soft. “After everything that was happening before all this, I thought…”  
  
“It was just some fun, Phil,” she murmurs. It cuts right through him, and he feels like he should be used to that, but it still hurts. “I don’t want to do it anymore.”  
  
“Do what?” he demands, trying to sound firm.  
  
“You know what,” she sighs. “I don’t need you getting attached again.”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot,” he snaps. “Of course I’m attached to you. We may not be married anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t-”  
  
“What? Love me?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
She snorts. “Just give it up, Phil.”  
  
He almost does. The harsh tone, the cold looks, it’s almost enough to make him give it all up and turn his back on her. Resentment rises in his throat like bile, and threatens to bubble over. He wants to scream at her for doing this to him, for trying to bring him down when all he wants to do is keep everyone aloft on his shoulders- Atlas, holding up the world, only the world keeps hurling rocks at him. He takes a breath.  
  
“You can’t just push me away when you’re hurting. You promised me you’d never do that again.”  
  
She glares, but her words fail her for a moment. Phil feels a sting of remorseful triumph.  
  
“I’m going home,” she says, her voice quiet and cold. “Alone.”  
  
“Fine,” he sighs. “But call me if you-”  
  
She’s already gone. The door closes, and he is alone.  
  
“Need me.”  
  
-  
  
When he opens his door to Natasha, Phil could cry. He pulls her into a tight hug, forcing her to drop her bag and hug him back. It feels so good to see someone from the part of his past when things were actually good, when his life seemed to be on track instead of hanging by threads.  
  
“How are you?” she asks. Even the first question is too complicated for a one word answer. Phil sighs, and leads the way inside. Nat looks around, and Phil wishes he’d cleaned up a little more.  
  
“More to the point,” he says, avoiding the question like a pro, “how are you?”  
  
She smiles. “I’m fine. Same old, just working here and there.”  
  
“And Clint? You really haven’t seen him in that long?”  
  
She shrugs, picking up her bag and tossing it onto the couch. “We fell out of touch about two years ago. I was getting the occasional message, but nothing for a while now.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
She shakes her head. “When things aren’t meant to be… well, you know.”  
  
He does, and it makes him want to tell her that he almost fixed things with Melinda, to a degree, or at least that she was here with him for a little while. But it won’t exactly be impressive, given that he’s fucked that particular avenue of his life up again.  
  
“So, is Homeland ready for me?”  
  
“Is it ever not?” he grins. “I thought you and I could go out to lunch, and then head in. It shouldn’t be too busy tonight.”  
  
“Sounds divine,” she smiles.  
  
-  
  
“Mel!”  
  
Natasha goes straight for the hug, and it’s the wrong move. Melinda doesn’t reciprocate, and Natasha is left to disengage and awkwardly step back. Melinda manages a frosty smile.  
  
“Natasha,” she greets. “I’m sorry, I have to get back to the kitchen.”  
  
Phil can only watch as Mel retreats, and Natasha is left confused and hurt. Fitz and Simmons fill the gap in hospitality, introducing themselves and talking to Natasha while they wait for the others. Phil wants to go after Melinda and force her back into the kitchen to see what she’s doing to everyone around her. He doesn’t, of course, just quietly hates himself for the lack of backbone.  
  
Skye and Grant arrive, and it hurts Phil to see how hesitant Natasha is to greet Grant after Melinda. But Grant does him proud, and wraps Natasha in a tight hug.  
  
“You’ve grown,” Natasha laughs, looking him up and down.  
  
“You haven’t,” he grins. “Nat, this is Skye, my… uh…”  
  
“Nice to meet you, Skye,” Nat smiles, tactfully ignoring the awkward trail-off, for which Skye is clearly grateful. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”  
  
“Hi,” Skye smiles, shaking her hand. “Come on, we’ll show you the place.”  
  
Skye and Grant lead Natasha off on a tour, and he follows Melinda into the kitchen, where she’s chopping vegetables.  
  
“Don’t,” she says, as soon as he walks in.  
  
“Don’t what?” he demands. “Don’t ask what the hell that was about?”  
  
“Just let me cook,” she snaps.  
  
“You know that was Natasha, right? The woman who helped us build this place? Jesus Christ, Melinda, what is the matter with you?”  
  
“What’s the matter with _me_?”  
  
The reply is soft, and Phil almost misses it in his haze of frustration.  
  
“With _me?”_ she repeats. “What’s the matter with _you_ , Phil? Have you forgotten everything that happened last week?”  
  
“Of course I haven’t.”  
  
“Could have fooled me.”  
  
Phil is kicking himself. Why can’t he ever just help people the way he wants to? How does it always end up worse than when he started?  
  
“Mel,” he attempts. “Please, I don’t know what to do to help you through this.”  
  
“You don’t need to help me through this.”  
  
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t give me that tough bullshit. You can hide from everyone else, but you can’t hide from me. I know you too well.”  
  
“You thinking you know people hasn’t been of much use lately.”  
  
He recoils at that. “Is that really what you think? That I’ve misjudged you like I misjudged him?”  
  
She can obviously hear the pain in his voice, and she turns away from the bench. “That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“You implied-”  
  
“Shut up,” she growls. “Phil, just- I just don’t know how to… I can’t understand…”  
  
She is flailing, and he knows the feeling. He crosses the kitchen and puts a hand on her arm.  
  
“I know.”  
  
She looks at him, and he can feel her seeing through him, like she always does. She can see what he’s hiding under this exterior, and she knows why he’s brought Natasha back here - because he needs to be reminded of a time before everything was messed up.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says, quietly. “I’m… Phil, I’m sorry. But you can’t fix this by pretending like none of it ever happened.”  
  
“Maybe I just want the good parts of the past to come with me into whatever happens next,” he murmurs, squeezing her hand.  
  
“I get that,” she sighs. He moves in to hug her, but she places a hand on his chest, stopping him short. He feels it like a punch.  
  
“Okay,” he manages. “Alright. If you don’t want-”  
  
“It’s just not a good idea.”  
  
God, he’s heard that before. So many times. Every backslide ends like this, although none of the past ones have involved a friend of theirs committing multiple felonies. Maybe this is the straw that broke the camel’s back. Something is different.  
  
Melinda turns back to the grill, and Phil wanders into the restaurant, slightly shellshocked.  
  
“…and those windows, they’re new?”  
  
“Yep,” Grant smiles. “Phil got them put in two years ago.”  
  
“They really open up the dining room,” Natasha smiles. “Phil, you’ve done so much since I was here last.”  
  
“Sure have,” Phil smiles. He’s trying to make it a convincing one, but he knows Natasha can read him like a book. There are going to be questions later that he’ll have no choice but to answer. He’s not dumb enough to try to lie to Nat.  
  
-  
  
Dinner goes well, and Phil is left sitting at one of the tables by the bar with Natasha. Everything is packed up, and the place is quiet.  
  
“Vodka,” Phil announces, setting down two glasses with ice and a bottle. Natasha sighs happily, and reaches for the bottle, pouring them both a generous double.  
  
“So,” she murmurs. “What happened?”  
  
Phil almost says that they’re fine. Almost. It’s on the point of rolling off his tongue, and he has to stop himself. He doesn’t have to protect Natasha. She’s strong, and if he’s honest, she’s always done a way better job of looking after other people than he has.  
  
“A lot,” he sighs.  
  
“Talk to me.”  
  
He does. He spills everything that’s happened over the past week, and how it’s affected the whole team. He doesn’t know how, but Natasha manages to get him talking about his own feelings, something he’s kept to himself this whole time. And then they hit a topic he doesn’t even know how to process.  
  
“Some days, I can’t tell if she hates me or-”  
  
“Phil,” Natasha interrupts, “Melinda does not hate you.”  
  
“She’s not the same person you knew,” Phil murmurs. “Look… after what happened when we were married… I mean, I tried to help her through all of it, but she didn’t want my help, and so we ended up divorced. She was always independent, but… it’s something else now, it’s like she doesn’t want to let me into any part of her life. At all.”  
  
Natasha squeezes his hand, and he hates himself for how broken he sounds.  
  
“And I thought that something like this, as terrible as it was, would bring her around, make her realise that…”  
  
“That you’re meant to be together,” Natasha supplies. He raises an eyebrow at his glass.  
  
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I thought that was it, but she doesn’t want any part of it anymore.”  
  
“She’s still here, though, Phil.”  
  
“She’s too stubborn to leave-”  
  
“No,” Nat cuts in, shaking her head. “I mean she’s still _here_ , Phil. You know Melinda. When has she ever stayed in a place she hated that much? Remember when you two went to that touristy little town in Honduras?”  
  
“She had us on a ferry to Belize three hours after we arrived,” he chuckles.  
  
“She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want to be.”  
  
Natasha is right, he realises. It brings him more comfort than anything he’s tried to tell himself over the last week. If Melinda really wanted out, she’d be out. It doesn’t mean she wants him, but it’s good enough that she still wants to be a part of Homeland.  
  
“You smiled,” Natasha points out. “You lose the Whose Life Is Worse competition.”  
  
He sighs. “And Clint?”  
  
She shrugs. “Took up with some girl in Iowa. I don’t know.”  
  
He snorts. “Like you haven’t looked him up.”  
  
“He’s not very active online,” she answers. “I don't know what he's doing. The girl looks nice, though."  
  
Phil sighs. "Does it look serious?"  
  
She nods, her expression neutral. Phil can feel emotions radiating off her, but he resists the urge to take her hand. She’s like Melinda in that respect - physical comfort means something else to her.  
  
“He's doing well,” she says. “So, any schemes you had to bring him down here and get us back together, well…”  
  
“I wasn’t-”  
  
She shoots him a look, and he hangs his head, defeated. “I’m sorry, Nat.”  
  
“He’s happy,” she shrugs. “Nothing better than seeing someone you love happy.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean you can’t wish it was with you.”  
  
She smiles. “I’ve missed you, Phil.”  
  
“Stay a while,” he says. “Please. I’m sick of people leaving.”  
  
“I’d like that,” she replies, refilling their glasses.


	34. The big white hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant needs support. He and Skye get some well-earned alone time, and talk.

“So… are you growing that beard on purpose?”  
  
Ward touches his chin, like he’s surprised to find it there.  
  
“I guess I haven’t shaved in a while. I’ll get on that.”  
  
“I kind of like it,” Skye says, looping her arm through his. The air is brisk, and the sun is setting. Being out in the open feels nice - less like being in danger and more like just taking a walk. Like normal people do.  
  
“I’m starving,” she says, after a few paces. “Wanna find somewhere to eat?”  
  
He looks surprised again. Real life is kicking back into gear, and Skye sort of understands how weird that feels, after everything that’s happened. Something as mundane as going out to dinner just doesn’t seem to fit into their lives right now. But she’s hungry, and she knows he hasn’t eaten since lunch.  
  
“Alright,” he nods. “Let’s get dinner.”  
  
There are never many places open after they’re done with work at Homeland, so they end up at a diner a few blocks from Ward’s apartment building. The decor is shabby, but it’s warm and clean. A waitress leads them over to a booth, and they sit.  
  
The waitress walks by after a few moments with their menus and water. Skye unfolds hers, glancing down the rows of options. After all this time with a steady job, she’s still not used to the luxury of not automatically ordering the cheapest thing on the menu. Ward is looking at his menu, but she can tell he’s not reading it. He’s thinking. About what, she doesn’t know, but given everything that’s happened to them recently, she can hazard a few guesses.  
  
“Hey,” she murmurs. He jolts slightly, and puts down his menu, blinking slowly. The waitress comes back over to their table, pad in hand, ready to take their orders. Grant quickly scans his menu.  
  
“I’ll get the burger with fries,” he says. “Medium. And, uh… a vanilla milkshake.”  
  
“Same,” Skye smiles. “But with a lime milkshake, please.”  
  
“Won’t be long,” the waitress says, flashing a smile far too bright for this time of night.  
  
“Lime,” Grant repeats, shaking his head.  
  
“What?” she demands. “What’s wrong with lime?”  
  
“What isn’t wrong with a lime milkshake?” he replies. “I mean… it’s citrus and dairy. Two things which should never ever, under any circumstances, be combined.”  
  
She snorts. “You have terrible taste.”  
  
“I’m not the one drinking green syrup in milk,” he retorts. There is a hint of a smile curling on the edges of his lips, and Skye feels her heart tug a little. This is what she wants. Just this, this cheekiness, this easy teasing. None of the other stuff.  
  
But the other stuff is hard to ignore. They get their burgers, and their milkshakes come. Grant teases her about her taste in syrup, she needles him back, they smile, they hold hands. But something is bothering him, and she can’t quite put her finger on it until the waitress comes over to clear their empty plates.  
  
“Could I get a coffee?” Ward asks. She nods, and swans away to get the pot.  
  
“You shouldn’t drink coffee,” Skye protests. “It’s almost two in the morning. You’ll never sleep.”  
  
“I have to go back to my place,” he sighs. “I’m getting the locks changed in the morning, and I have to be there to let the guy in.”  
  
She bites her lip. “I could move the van around in front of your building-”  
  
“I have to go back sometime,” he says. He looks like he’s steeling himself. Skye reaches across the narrow table and takes his hand. Now his distraction makes a little more sense.  
  
“Grant-”  
  
“Would you stay?” he blurts out. She is taken by surprise, and he starts to react, to pull away, but she lets out a quiet laugh, which stops him in his tracks.  
  
“What?” he asks.  
  
“It’s just… I thought I’d have to force you to let me stay with you,” she smiles. “Of course I’ll stay. If you’re not going to sleep, I’ll stay up with you. We can watch movies or something. Keep each other awake.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to stay awake.”  
  
“Sure you weren’t,” she sighs. “We both know neither of us will sleep there until the locks have been changed. So let’s go stay up all night and sleep through the day, huh?”  
  
He almost says something, but instead he just raises her hands to his lips and kisses her knuckles. Skye smiles. One step at a time.  
  
The waitress returns with Grant’s coffee, and he accepts it gratefully.  
  
“Could I get one too?” Skye asks. The woman fetches another cup and fills it for her. Skye sips the brew, warming her hands on the cup. She wrinkles her nose.  
  
“Needs sugar,” she mutters.  
  
“Thank you,” Grant says. His voice sounds strange.  
  
“Don’t be stupid,” she replies. “Nothing to thank me for.”  
  
He falls silent, and they finish their coffees without speaking again. It’s a warm silence, though, which is a relief for Skye. She’d be happy never to sit through a cold silence again.  
  
They pay for their food, and leave the diner. It’s past late night now, and well into very early morning. There’s almost no one around, and only a couple of cars pass on the walk back to Ward’s building. He opens up, and they take the elevator to the seventh floor. Grant is quiet, and Skye stays close. She touches the van keys in her pocket. There’s always space for him to change his mind, but if he wants to stay here, she’s not going to let him do it alone.  
  
Grant opens his apartment, and switches on the lights. He’s only been back to grab clothes and essentials, and Skye hasn’t been back here since the night Garret beat Grant and left him for dead.  She laces her fingers in his, and he squeezes her hand gently.  
  
“So,” she says, tugging him over towards the couch. “Movies?”  
  
“Movies,” he nods. “Let’s watch something easy. I’ve never seen _Finding Nemo_.”  
  
“That works,” she shrugs. She picks up the remote and flicks through the movie options, finally locating the kids’ lists and the movie they’re after.  
  
“I’ve always wanted to go to Australia,” she says, kicking off her shoes and relaxing onto the couch as an animated reef appears on the screen.  
  
“Maybe we could go someday,” Grant murmurs, joining her on the couch. He doesn’t take his shoes off, and it’s not lost on Skye that he doesn’t feel comfortable in his own home. She feels a pang in her chest, but she pushes it away. Now is not the time for sadness. They’re having a nice night.  
  
The movie plays, and Skye tries to concentrate on it. The effects of the caffeine are holding, and she’s happy to curl up against Grant and watch. He still hasn’t got comfortable, committed as he is to staying awake until the locksmith comes.  
  
“Wow, they found him,” Skye yawns, when the movie ends. “Didn’t see that one coming.”  
  
Grant chuckles softly, and kisses her forehead. “I’ll make some more coffee. You don’t have to stay awake, though, you can sleep if you-”  
  
“Coffee sounds great,” she interrupts. “And I’m staying awake as long as you are.”  
  
He smiles, and goes to put the coffee on. Skye picks out another kids’ movie, and grabs a blanket from the nearby armchair to drape over her lap. Grant returns after a little while, two fresh cups of coffee in hand.  
  
“What are we watching?” he asks.  
  
“ _Toy Story_.”  
  
“It’s like you _want_ me to cry.”  
  
She laughs, and leans against him.  
  
They manage another two movies by the time the buzzer rings. Skye jolts when she hears the noise, but Grant is already up and answering the intercom.  
  
“He’s early,” she yawns. For not having slept, she feels quite alert. It probably won’t last long, but it’s better than being asleep on her feet.  
  
Grant lets the locksmith in. The entire process only takes about fifteen minutes, and then he’s gone and Grant has two brand new keys to his two brand new locks.  
  
“Feel better?” Skye asks, getting up from the couch.  
  
He nods. “Much better. So much better.” He looks up, managing a tired smile. “Thank you, Skye.”  
  
She waves him off, but he shakes his head.  
  
“No, really,” he says. “Thank you. Come on, let me make you breakfast.”  
  
She follows him to the kitchen, and finds him rooting through his fridge.  
  
“I… guess I don’t have any food,” he says, apologetically. “Going to have to go shopping.”  
  
“Well, let’s go then,” Skye says, grabbing her shoes. “Come on, there’s a bodega over the road. We’ll grab some eggs or something.”  
  
He grins, and follows her out the door.  
  
They wander through the bodega for a while, and Grant surprises her by taking her hand as they wander the narrow aisles. Grant grabs flour, eggs, some milk, and some syrup. Skye guesses pancakes, a guess which proves correct. Once they get back to his apartment, Grant mixes up the batter.  
  
“We should get you behind the grill more often,” Skye grins, perched on the counter as he prepares his mix. “You look really great with that dish towel over your shoulder.”  
  
“You think I look good now?” he chuckles. “Just wait until I’m serving you up a hot plate of fresh pancakes, dripping with syrup.”  
  
“See, you’re joking, but that actually turns me on a little.”  
  
He laughs, and grabs a frying pan, setting it on the stove. Skye watches avidly as he pours the batter and starts to cook.  
  
“So a chef does it for you, huh?” he grins, looking over his shoulder at her.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“What if I put on the big white hat? Would that be better?”  
  
“You shut your mouth,” she laughs.  
  
“I mean, I could go the whole hog and get a jacket and a big wooden spoon.”  
  
She slides off the bench and pushes him away from the stove, her hands on his chest. “Go on then. Buy a chef’s hat. I dare you. You’d still look good in it.”  
  
He ducks his head and kisses her before she realises what’s happening. It’s a fantastic kiss, and when they separate, Skye can hardly breathe.  
  
“Skye,” he says, his voice soft. “I… I think I might… I think…”  
  
“I think I might too,” she says, resting her forehead against his. Love you. It’s unsaid, but it doesn’t make it less true. Loving someone like this is a strange feeling for her. She’s surprised, really. After everything, she’d been sure she could push her feelings down and forget about them, but instead they got a second chance and came back stronger. And he loves her too. He loves her.  
  
Instead of talking, she kisses him again. Even though they haven’t said the words out loud, they’re in the air. Skye feels her back press against the bench, and allows herself to be picked up so she can slide onto it, giving her better access to him. Her hands roam over his shoulders and down his back, her lips are on his, she can hear her heart beating, she can smell burning-  
  
“Grant,” she mumbles, pulling away. “Grant, the stove-”  
  
He swears, and staggers over to the stove, pulling the burning pancake off the heat. He turns the extractor fan on and leans against it. Skye can’t help but give a small snort, and in moments they’re both laughing. Grant cleans out the pan and starts again, and after a while they’re sitting with a pancake stack each, eating in companionable silence.  
  
The morning wears on, and Skye finds herself crawling into bed with him, too tired to think. She lies down on his chest, and closes her eyes.  
  
“Skye?”  
  
“I forgive you,” she says, opening her eyes and looking up at him. She’s taken him by surprise again, and she loves the little crinkle that forms between his eyes when he’s surprised.  
  
“I still want to say it.”  
  
“You don’t have to,” she says, shaking her head. “I forgive you. For everything. We’ve still got shit to work through, but I don’t blame you for what happened. Any of it.”  
  
He sags into his pillows, closing his eyes. She props herself up on her arm and kisses his forehead, watching the furrows smooth away.  
  
“Let’s just sleep, hmm?” she murmurs. “Just sleep.”  
  
He does, and she follows soon after. When she wakes up, he’s shifting next to her, and she presses kisses to his nose until his eyes open.  
  
“Let’s date,” she says.  
  
“Wugh?” Grant mumbles, blinking slowly.  
  
“Date,” she says. “Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Let’s do it properly.”  
  
“Are you sure?” he asks, squinting against the afternoon light.  
  
She nods. “We’re… well, we’re pretty much dating anyway. Let’s just… call it what it is.”  
  
A smile clears the bleariness right off his face, and he rolls onto her, pressing her down into the pillows and kissing her.  
  
“Morning breath,” she protests.  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” he laughs. “You’re my girlfriend now. We just have to put up with that kind of stuff.”  
  
She grins, and winds her arms around him, pulling him down closer. His kisses are soft, but urgent.  
  
“Take your shirt off,” she murmurs. He pulls back long enough to follow orders, and she pushes him onto his back so she can straddle him and admire the view. He just gazes up at her like he’s the luckiest man alive, and for once it doesn’t make her uncomfortable. She basks in it. He makes her feel like it’s warranted, not like she’s deceiving him, or about to hurt him. He trusts her, and she loves him for it.  
  
They undress, and within moments she’s lost him under the covers. She quickly realises where he is when he pushes her thighs apart and dives in. She pushes the covers back so she can watch, but quickly forgets all her other senses as he uses his tongue to drive her to the brink of orgasm in a shockingly short time. She almost wants to congratulate him, but the only things coming out of her mouth are swear words and his name. He makes her come far too easily, and she lies there for a long moment, panting, while he kisses her thighs, and her stomach.  
  
“My turn,” she murmurs. He looks hesitant, and she smiles. Always wanting to protect her. Never wanting to make her feel less than him, or out of control.  
  
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “Grant, I want to. Let me do this for you.”  
  
She makes him lie back on his pillows, and kisses her way down his stupidly muscular body, settling between his legs. She feels his fists bunch in the sheets when she takes him in her mouth, and she’s gratified to see that he’s not the only one who’s good at what he does. She doesn’t make him come, not yet. He still has work to do.  
  
He tugs gently on her arm and she slides up his body, cupping his face in her hands.  
  
“Fuck me,” she breathes, needy, wanting.  
  
“No,” he murmurs. She raises an eyebrow, and he grins, pushing her into the pillows. “I’m gonna make love to you.”  
  
She groans. “Do _not_ call it that.”  
  
He laughs. “Try and stop me. I’ll make love to you, or nothing at all.”  
  
“I’d almost take nothing at all over _making love_.”  
  
“Liar.”  
  
She laughs, and kisses him, and while he fumbles with a condom she brushes her fingers through his hair. Then he’s between her legs again, and she gets what she wants, the only thing she wants right now. He’s inside her, and she’s never felt so close to someone. She doesn’t have time for philosophising, because he’s moving, thrusting, and fuck it feels so much better with emotions in the mix. She loves him, and she knows he can hear it in the way his name falls from her lips, and from the way she cries out when she comes again. And he loves her - she knows, she can see it in his eyes after he’s done, when he’s slumped beside her, gazing at her, playing with her fingers.  
  
They doze a while, but all too soon her phone beeps. The alarm.  
  
“Come on,” she murmurs, kissing his nose. “Let’s shower. It’s time to get to work.”


	35. Something broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Grant Ward arrives at Homeland. Phil desperately tries to hold everything together.

“It’s good to see you again, Phil,” John says, as he reaches out for a hug. Phil embraces his old friend, and though Melinda still isn’t thrilled that they’ve had a stray twenty-year-old foisted on them, she manages a smile and a hug for John.

The boy looks twitchy, but he is staring resolutely at the floor, as if waiting for permission to look around or even make eye contact with anyone.

“You must be Grant,” Phil says, taking a tentative step forward. John’s likening of the boy to an animal was not as harsh as he thought - the boy jerks, and glances wildly at John. Only when the man nods does the boy stretch out his hand. He’s a head taller than Phil, but his shoulders are hunched and his posture makes it seem like he’s trying to defend himself from something. Phil shakes his hand, and gestures around them.

“Welcome to Homeland, Grant,” he says. Grant is making eye contact, but it feels forced. Phil can’t get a read on the kid, and it’s unnerving. He lets go of his hand, and clears his throat.

“Let’s get you settled in, huh?” he says. He can practically feel Melinda rolling her eyes at him, which is only to be expected these days. The ‘I told you so’ hangs unspoken between them, as it always does, and Phil brushes past it as he leads the way into the bar area.

“I’m going to start you out here,” Phil tells him. “You’ll be an all-rounder, but it’s as good a place to begin as any.”

Grant nods, and Phil finds the movement weirdly robotic. He tries to remind himself of what little John has told him - that the boy is traumatised, and needs time to heal. Didn’t he and Mel always say they’d adopt a kid in need? They laughed about it so many times, because they never thought they’d need options. Babies would just happen when they were ready. Look how well that panned out.

Phil shakes off those thoughts. He can’t focus on any of that, or everything will fall apart. He feels like he’s hanging on by a thread these days. Homeland is as solid as life gets. He leads the way into the bar, where Natasha is setting up for the evening ahead.

“Hey,” she smiles, flicking a dish cloth over her shoulder and setting the glass she was drying down on the bench.

“Nat, this is Grant,” Phil says. He’s told her and Clint everything he knows about the kid, so they’re as ready as they can be. Natasha clearly isn’t thrilled about her involuntary foray into training troubled youth to work with alcohol, but as ever, she soldiers on.

“I’ll take care of him,” she says, waving Phil off. He turns, and John is standing in the doorway.

“Come through to the back dining room, then,” he grins at his old friend. “I’ll show you the remodel.”

They leave, and Natasha watches them go. The second the men are out of the room, she sees Grant relax minutely. Deliberately ignoring this observation, she hands him a tea towel.

“Worked behind a bar before?”

He nods, looking at the floor.

“Want to start the evening with a drink?”

His eyes dart up to her face, like he’s trying to figure out if she’s screwing with him.

“Are you sure?” he asks. His voice is quiet, and nervous.

“Helps me deal with the shittier customers,” she smiles, hooking a nice whiskey down from the shelf and grabbing two glasses.

“John doesn’t like it when I drink,” Grant says, looking over his shoulder. Natasha is having a hard time not reading into things, but she’s promised Clint she’ll stop psychologising other people and she’s really trying this time.

“John’s out back with Phil,” she says, grinning at him gently. “He doesn’t have to know.”

She hands him a glass, and he looks down at it, then at her again. She tries to make an encouraging face.

“Never let anyone tell you not to have a whiskey,” she murmurs, clinking their glasses. “They are almost always wrong.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in what could almost be a smile, and he glances at the doorway before knocking back his drink. Natasha follows his lead, and then slides their glasses into the dishwasher.

“The only thing you’ll really need to get to grips with is the computer,” she tells him. “And that’s easy, it’s just a point of service system. We’ve got a few different price points, stuff like that. It’s pretty straightforward.”

He nods. Natasha gets the unsettling sense that he’s absorbing everything she’s telling him, plus everything else in his surroundings. She recognises the habit as one of her own. As much as she’s trying not to get a read on this kid, she’s getting more and more curious.

She runs him through the basics of the system, gives him a copy of the drink menu, and proclaims him fully trained within half an hour. Soon, Phil returns, having shown John the remodelled back dining room he’s so proud of.

“He’s a fast learner,” Natasha says, proudly. She looks over at Grant, but he’s retreated into silence again, and isn’t looking at anyone.

“He sure is,” John smiles. There’s a weird vibe to the guy that no one else seems to be picking up on. Natasha’s met him once or twice before, mostly when he shows up out of the blue to ask favours of Phil and Melinda or crash on their couch. She’s never talked to him one-on-one, and now she’s kind of glad of that.

“Phil,” Melinda calls, sticking her head around the door, “I need you in the kitchen.”

Phil claps John on the back and hurries in to help Melinda. John hovers for a moment, and Natasha resists the urge to see him off. It’s not her business.

“Well,” the man says, clearly waiting for Grant to make some move or say something. He doesn’t, and John nods, disappointed.

“I’ll say goodbye to Phil and Mel, and then I’ll be off,” he says. “Nice to see you again… Nat, isn’t it?”

“Natasha,” she says, in what she hopes is a friendly manner, but really suspects is not.

“Natasha,” he repeats. She doesn’t like the way her name sounds in his voice. “Nice to see you again. Grant… good luck.”

He leaves, and Natasha turns, ready to ask Grant dozens of questions. She stops herself, because Grant is leaning heavily on the bar.

“You okay?” she murmurs. She wants to reach out and touch his shoulder, but something tells her that’s not a good move to make right now.

“I’m fine,” he says, nodding and straightening up. “I just… I’m relieved to be here, is all.”

She wants to tell him that everything is okay, and whatever happened to him before is behind him now. She wants to tell him that she doesn’t care about his past, and she knows what it’s like to be scared of things that are long since finished.

“This is a good place,” she says, instead of all these things. She is rewarded with a small smile from Grant.

 

She is distracted from this line of thought by the appearance of someone she couldn’t forget even if she had a thousand years to try.

“Clint,” she grins. He beams, and bounds over to wrap her in a hug.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, squeezing her tight.

“Where the hell have you been?” she demands, pulling back. “I thought you were due back last month.”

“Lost track of time,” he smiles. “I was working in Thailand for a while, and a guy asked if I’d help sail his boat down to Sydney.”

“Have you ever even been on a boat before?”

“Shut up. I learned fast.”

She laughs. “So, Australia?”

“For a while,” he replies. He finally lets go of her. “But I’m back. I’m going to help Phil out for the week and see what comes up.”

She sighs, resting a hand on his arm. “You’re going to go again?”

He nods. “Probably. But you never know, I might get a job in the States.”

Natasha kisses his cheek. “It’s good to have you back, even for a week.

“Thanks, Tash,” he smiles. “I… I actually need a place to crash, if…”

“I would be offended if you didn’t stay at my apartment,” she laughs. He grins, relieved, and hugs her again.

Clint, uncharacteristically slow on the draw, finally notices the young man standing behind the bar.

“Who’s this?” he asks. Straight to the point. She’s missed that.

Natasha waits for him to introduce himself, but Grant seems to be stuck on getting the words out.

“This is Grant,” she says, waving him over. “Garrett dropped him off here. He’s going to be working the bar and the restaurant floor.”

“Nice to meet you,” Clint smiles, reaching over to shake Grant’s hand. He gets a stiff shake and a guarded look in response, and Natasha tries (again) not to think too hard about it.

“Come on,” she says, after an uncomfortable moment of silence. “We’ll be opening in an hour, gotta get everything ready. Clint, you’d better go and get changed.”

He gives a brief smile, glances at Grant, and ducks out of the bar. Natasha doesn’t say anything, just hands Grant some bar menus to lay out on the benches.

 

When the night is over, Phil and Melinda head home. The apartment is quiet, as it so often is. Melinda, despite the fact that it’s almost three in the morning and they’re both exhausted, goes to the kitchen to stack a few things in the dishwasher. Phil waits for her to be done, but she seems resolute in not coming straight to bed, so he goes to the kitchen door.

“Mel?”

“Mm?”

She doesn’t sound angry. Just tired.

“Look, I know it’s not ideal.”

“What’s not?”

“This whole… looking after Grant thing.”

“It’s not like he’s sleeping here,” she shrugs. “As long as he does his job and doesn’t cause any trouble, I couldn’t care less.”

“Nat thought he was pretty good behind the bar. A little robotic when it came to customers, but I’m sure he’ll learn.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. It’s hard to be the patient one of the two of them, especially when he feels like he’s talking to a brick wall.

“And it was good having Clint back.”

“Are you going to shower first or can I?” she asks.

“We could just shower together,” he murmurs.

She just looks at him. He feels something pinch in his chest. Something is so fundamentally different to how it used to be. Something is lost. Something broken.

“Or not,” he mumbles. He feels heat rise to his cheeks. Stupid. Stupid idea. “Mel… is there anything I can do?”

“Like what?” she asks. She doesn’t say it spitefully, just- wearily. Like she’s tired of the effort of standing there talking to him.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

She frowns. “What for?”

“For agreeing to taking on this kid. I shouldn’t have. I should… I should have talked to you about how you felt. Properly. I’m sorry.”

“Phil-”

“No, Mel,” he interrupts. “God, I… I know I can never understand what it was like, what happened to you, but… I just want to do something. Save someone.”

Melinda just stares at him for a moment, then moves over to him, resting a hand on his arm.

“It wasn’t your fault, Phil,” she whispers. “Or mine. There was nothing we could have done.”

He drops his head onto her shoulder, and she wraps her arms around him. For a moment, he feels that spark of warmth he’s always felt when they hold each other.

“Come on,” she murmurs. She leads the way to the bathroom, and they strip off together. The hot water stings Phil’s skin when Melinda turns on the taps, but it’s nothing to the way he feels inside, this aching, clawing pain that has been with him for over a year now. He tries to kiss her, to hold her, but Melinda just washes herself and then washes him, eluding him, silky and impossible to hold on to under the spray.

“I love you,” he murmurs, later, when they’ve towelled off and are lying in bed. It’s dark, and cool, and he can feel her warmth next to him in the bed but he somehow knows he’s not allowed to drape himself over her. Not tonight.

“Get some rest, Phil,” she murmurs, and it breaks his heart.

-

“Ta-daa.”

Natasha takes the drink Grant hands her, and sips it. She takes a moment to taste it silently, and then puts the glass down.

“That,” she says, “is the best damn Old Fashioned I’ve ever tasted.”

“Liar,” he grins.

“Okay,” she laughs. “It’s an Old Fashioned. They all taste the same. But it’s really good.”

He smiles, and wipes down the bar.

It’s been a month since Grant arrived, and Natasha seems to be the only one seeing any progress. To the others, he’s stony and quiet. With her, he seems to be far more comfortable, talking, learning, even laughing sometimes. She just wishes he’d be more trusting of the others.

“Any word from Clint?”

She starts. “Huh?”

“Clint,” he says, carefully, obviously trying to gauge her reaction. “Your, uh… boyfriend?”

“Ex,” she says. He looks faintly horrified, and she laughs. “Don’t panic. It was amicable. Mostly because he travels so much and I wanted to stay here and work with Phil.”

“Why did he take off in the first place?” Grant asks, wiping a glass. Natasha shrugs.

“We both travelled for a long time,” she says, feeling nostalgia roll over her. She remembers what this bar looked like the first day she and Clint stuck their heads through the splintered door. It had been nothing but bare timber and chunks of plaster everywhere.

“I guess I wanted to slow down, but he’d got a taste for it. He’s a country boy from Iowa, all he wants to do is see as much of the world as he can.”

“And you?”

She smiles. “I’ve seen enough of the world for now.”

He quirks an eyebrow, but they’ve both learned over the past month that when one of them isn’t feeling like divulging, there’s not much point in pushing it.

“Garrett told me all these amazing things about Phil and Melinda,” Grant says idly. “I though they’d be more… you know…”

“More what?” she asks.

“I don’t know. In love?” he shrugs. “I guess he talked it up a bit. He wanted me to want to come here.”

She sighs. “They were in love. Still are, just not quite in the same way.”

“Did something happen?”

She smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. “You’re way too smart for your own good, you know that?”

He waits, and she knows she shouldn’t, but with Clint gone she doesn’t really have anyone to share this with.

“About a year and a half ago, Melinda got pregnant.”

Grant seems to know instinctively where this story is going. It doesn’t take much guessing, given the notable absence of any children at Homeland.

“She was four months along when… well-”

“Fuck,” he says softly. “And they…”

“Haven’t really recovered,” Natasha sighed. “Don’t tell anyone I told you, okay? Phil asked me not to.”

Grant looks unspeakably sad for a moment, and then straightens his back. Natasha hates the way he can so quickly pretend not to be affected.

“That explains a lot,” he sighs. “I guess this wasn’t a great time for me to show up.”

Natasha shakes her head. “I think they needed this. Well, Phil did, at least. Having someone to fix.”

His lips tighten imperceptibly.

“I don’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” he mutters.

“Grant-”

“Don’t.”

She sees him visibly shut off, and kicks herself for being so careless. It’s one step forward, seven steps back with this kid.

Melinda calls dinner time, and she helps him close down the last of the bar. Grant is quiet all through the meal, as are Phil and Melinda. Natasha comes to the sudden realisation that she can’t stay here much longer. Not like this.

Later, as she leaves, she pulls out her phone and sends a message to Clint. It’s short, and to the point, and within a minute he has responded. She smiles, and looks back over her shoulder at the restaurant, wondering how to tell Phil that she’s joining the ranks of all the people who’ve left him.

 


End file.
